THE 


/iNEGAR 

,IL_   1       1     _~-  -     X— »    ...       — .  JL       ~ 


..»    *.~.  Tro 


•  •  ^  '•»     i»  -  o  .'.  i>i\rr' 
..'/^     itiii^  J^NO 


She  stood  watching 


The 

VINEGAR 

SAINT 

By 

HUGHES  MEARNS 

Author  o/"  RICHARD  RICHARD" 

Illustrated  by 
RALPH   L.   BOYER 


THE     PENN    PUBLISHING 

COMPANY  PHILADELPHIA 

1919 


COPYRIGHT 
1919  BY 
THE  PENN 
PUBLISHING 
COMPANY 


The  Vinegar  Saint 


TO 
FAGLEY 


'•Someone  must  keep  watch  lest  the  Heavens  fall!" 

— The  Vinegar  Saint. 


2131416 


POSTSCRIPT 

(For  aren't  all  prefaces  really  postscripts?) 

THIS  chronicle  of  Gorgas  and  her  friends  was 
within  sight  of  the  end  when  out  of  Germany 
came  the  incredible  news  of  war.  Twenty- 
five  years  earlier  Bardek  had  fought  "  the  big 
Austrian  "  because  "  he  had  spoke  against  the  French  " ; 
all  of  which  the  present  scribe  had  duly  writ  down,  but 
only  as  one  tells  of  ancient  passions  or  historic  loves 
and  hates.  Who,  outside  of  unspeakable  Germany, 
was  prepared  for  the  shock  of  the  world  war?  Then, 
when  our  own  boys  were  moving  across  the  seas  —  just 
because  one  had  "  spoke  against  the  French  " —  the  his- 
tory of  Gorgas  and  the  Vinegar  Saint  was  put  aside, 
along  with  other  matter  that  we  once  thought  impor- 
tant; and  the  present  historian  was  standing  reveille, 
watch  and  guard  on  a  scrubby  hill  leagues  from  home. 
Finally  comes  the  collapse  of  the  mad  German  dream, 
as  abruptly  as  it  began,  and  things  of  peace  and  sanity 
emerge,  including  this  story  of  the  Vinegar  Saint. 

Well,  good  is  good,  and  evil  is  evil ;  and  there  is  to 
be  no  compromise  nor  confusion  of  the  two.  Such 
is  the  conclusion  of  the  victory  just  accomplished  — 
which  is  only  what  the  Vinegar  Saint  had  contended 
all  along!  It  did  not  seem  to  need  a  world  war  to 
prove  so  true  a  truth. 


POSTSCRIPT 

The  chronicler  cannot  resist  giving  Captain  "  Chuck  " 
Williams'  account  of  a  late  meeting  with  Bardek. 
Slim  and  spruce  he  was ;  clean  shaven  —  to  prevent 
the  white  stubble  from  giving  his  years  away;  a  major 
in  the  brilliant  full  dress  of  the  French,  one  of  that 
gay  band,  veterans  all,  who  visited  America  during 
the  early  days  of  our  entrance  into  the  conflict.  It 
was  a  leaden,  characterless  April  day  —  a  perfect 
"  Deutschertag  "  —  but  he  was  spluttering  French  like 
a  Roman  candle.  "  Chuck "  burst  into  the  group, 
clicked  heels  and  saluted  profoundly.  "  Bardek !  "  he 
shouted,  grasping  his  hands.  "  You  old  grandfather ! 
What  in  the  name  of  poetry  are  you  doing  in  uniform !  " 
The  rogue !  He  was  sixty  years  old  if  a  day,  but  had 
got  himself  up  like  a  youngster  of  thirty. 

He  wrung  "  Chuck's  "  hands  with  the  old-time  fervor, 
rattling  a  half  dozen  medals  on  his  breast,  but  his  face 
remained  a  pantomime  of  inquiry,  puzzledom  and  will- 
ingness to  please  any  lunatic  in  the  uniform  of  the 
U.S.A.  Turning  limply  to  a  brother  he  begged  a 
translation ;  then  replied  gravely,  in  French,  "  One  is 
never  too  old  to  fight  for  France  " ;  and  added,  "  I  am 
sorry  that  in  my  youth  I  did  not  pay  attention  to  my 
teachers  and  thus  learn  to  speak  your  beautiful  Eng- 
lish. Alas !  "  —  a  delectable  shrug  —  "I  know  but 
French." 

"You  are  Bardek  —  "  "Chuck"  began.  "Bar- 
dek!" echoed  the  major.  "You  know  me,  then?" 
The  shoulders  lifted  slightly.  "  Bardek,  c'est  vraiment 
moil  Bardek!  C'est  fa!  Commandant!  Soixante- 

ii 


THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

dirsept  regiment!!  "  The  shoulders  went  higher  and 
prouder  with  each  phrase,  his  whole  suite  following 
him  in  exact  imitation.  "  Tr-r-oisieme  bataillon!!! 
Chasseur  a  pied!!!!  "  But  the  proud  picture  soon  dis- 
solved in  swift  laughter.  "  At  the  service  of  m'sieu' 
le  capitaine,"  he  bowed.  "  Le  commandant  is  compli- 
mented that  m'sieu'  le  capitaine  should  remember  his 
acquaintance.  We  have  perhaps  met  in  France?" 

"  It  was  in  America,  Bardek !  "  Captain  Williams 
insisted.  "  Don't  try  any  of  your  infernal  jokes  on 
me.  It  was  in  Cresheim  Valley !  At  Mount  Airy ! 
And  what's  all  this  nonsense  about  not  knowing  Eng- 
lish!" 

Bardek  waited  patiently  for  the  interpreter  to  make 
the  speech  into  French.  "  It  was  perhaps  my  grand- 
father," he  shrugged  politely.  "  America  I  do  not 
know.  Always,"  he  touched  his  heart  lightly,  "  always 
I  have  lived  in  France."  And  from  that  he  could  not 
be  budged. 

Nevertheless,  he  ate  the  captain's  luncheon,  he  and 
his  gay  "  devils  "  —  "  Chuck  "  was  the  envy  of  the 
whole  restaurant  —  meanwhile  telling  him,  in  a  French 
which  was  painfully  slowed  up  for  foreign  ears,  all 
the  news  of  all  the  world.  There  were  staccato,  rapid- 
fire  asides,  to  be  sure,  which  drew  roars  from  his  com- 
panions ;  but  he  would  not  step  out  of  the  role  of 
Frenchman.  Many  times  he  repeated,  with  varying 
grades  of  fervor,  "  Always  I  have  lived  in  France ! " 

At  "  Chuck's  "  final  handshake,  however,  he  relented. 
"  Vive  la  France!  "  said  "  Chuck,"  gripping  him  hard. 


POSTSCRIPT 

"  La  Fr-r-rance!  "  growled  Bardek.  They  shook  hands 
ferociously.  Then  the  major  leaned  over  —  "  Chuck  " 
thought  he  was  about  to  be  kissed !  —  to  whisper 
solemnly  in  his  ear,  "  And  you  will  give  my  loave  to  ol' 
Mack,  if  he  be  still  alive,  an'  to  the  Professor,  and  to 
the  good  Gorgass,  and  you  will  tell  her  to  be  vair-r-y 
care-ful  of  herself.  She  is  now  too  ol'  a  woman  to  go 
splashing  in  rivers  when  it  is  yet  April ! " 

He  left  in  a  storm  of  basso  laughter. 

H.  M. 

Fort  McHenry, 

Maryland,  U.  S.  A. 


Iv 


CONTENTS 


BOOK  ONE 

CHAPTER                     THE  GOLDEN  CHILD  PAOE 

I    LEGS 11 

II  GYPSIES! 29 

III  THE   OLD  PAPER  MILL 39 

IV  "  THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  " 46 

V    BARDEK 59 

VI  LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FHATERNITE 72 

VII  A  "FRENCH  DAY"  AT  NIGHT 85 

VIII  "MY  THEORY  Is—" 98 

IX  "BONG-JOUR" 110 

X      HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS 123 

BOOK  TWO 

THE  HIDDEN  RIVER 

XI     SIXTEEN 143 

XII    MIXED   RENDEZVOUS 152 

XIII  TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR 165 

XIV  A  MORRIS  DAY 180 

XV    THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION 195 

* 

BOOK  THREE 

THE  CALL  TO  BE  FREE 

XVI     RATS! 221 

XVII     AN  UNEXPECTED  BINGLE 233 

XVIII     A   PARABLE   OF  IGNORANCE 249 

XIX    TOBOGGANING 261 

XX     A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY 278 

XXI     EVE'S    CHOICE 292 

XXII  TOP-O'-THE-HILL                                                             .  302 


CONTENTS 
BOOK  FOUR 

CHAPTER  CANAAN  PAGE 

XXIII  MY  LORD  AND  EKE  MY  MASTER 323 

XXIV  THE    HOLD-UP 331 

XXV    DAGO 339 

XXVI  THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN 353 

XXVII  TZOO-OOM! 368 

XXVIII  THE     MIDNIGHT    EXPRESS 385 

XXIX  "  STRAIGHT  !    STRAIGHT  !    STRAIGHT  !    STRAIGHT  !  "  .  401 


ILLUSTRATIONS 

PAGE 

She  stood  watching Frontispiece 

"It  looks   almost   finished" 67 

"I  am  loafing  my  life  away" 161 

"Top-o'-the-Hill" 343 


BOOK  ONE 
The  Golden  Child 

Are  you  a  child  or  a  teetotum?"  the  Sheep  asked. 


The  Vinegar  Saint 


LEGS 


THE   young  man   of   twenty-three  was  not   a 
clever  tennis  player,  but  his  partner  and  his 
opponents,  men  of  forty,  were  obviously  less 
clever.     The   Mount   Airy    Club   courts   were   sought 
chiefly  by  two  sorts  of  players,  boys  too  uncourageous 
for  baseball,  and  men  of  impending  girth;  secluded  by 
fine  old  ragged  trees  and  off  an  unused  road,  it  had  no 
gallery  of  experts  to  disturb  the  timid. 

The  young  man  belonged  to  neither  class,  but  he 
found  his  Saturday  afternoon  game  of  tennis  with  per- 
spiring business-men  just  the  thing  to  put  him  in  tone 
for  his  own  week's  business  of  research  among  revered 
but  defunct  Elizabethans.  Besides,  he  often  had  the 
joys  of  victory  hard  won. 

At  present,  he  was  fighting  it  out  with  a  butter-and- 
egg  middleman.  Years  of  handling  a  fragile  and  per- 
ishable commodity  had  made  the  middleman  self-con- 
scious in  the  presence  of  so  egg-like  an  object  as  a  ten- 
nis ball.  He  puzzled  his  opponents,  therefore,  as  the 

11 


12  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

inexperienced  whist  player  so  often  does,  by  unaccount- 
able delicacy  when  one  naturally  expected  a  smashing 
drive,  and  at  other  times  by  reckless  lobbing  —  as  if  he 
had  just  condemned  a  bad  shipment!  —  when  the  safe 
return  was  a  gentle  touch. 

A  wife  or  two  sat  sewing  in  the  lee  of  a  cherry  tree. 
They  often  stopped  their  mild  chatter  to  watch  some 
contested  point  —  sometimes  the  ball  stayed  in  play 
unaccountably  long;  a  quarter  of  the  returns  was  ac- 
cidental !  —  at .  such  times  the  repartee  on  the  courts 
was  equally  compelling.  A  "  professor  "  is  by  instinct 
talkative,  and  the  enforced  reticence  of  butter-and-egg 
middlemen  unloosens  sudden  outbursts  of  speech  —  the 
figure  has  an  unfortunate  but  truthful  suggestion  — 
like  dammed  things. 

All  this  was  a  generation  ago  —  June  17,  1888,  to  be 
exact  —  a  period  when  tennis  in  America  was  an  exclu- 
sive sport  like  lacrosse  or  cricket.  But  the  game  had 
already  made  great  headway  toward  being  an  American 
thing.  Mount  Airy  players  had  long  ago  dug  out  the 
English  "  lawn  "  to  make  a  "  skin  court  " ;  they  had 
twisted  the  English  "  thank  you  "  into  a  technical  and 
not  always  polite  order  to  return  stray  balls,  and  had 
adopted  the  usual  American  system  of  "  badgering." 
Anyone  could  see  that  the  young  chap  was  trying  to 
"  talk "  his  opponent  into  error.  In  the  American 
code,  the  man  loses  caste  who  cannot  stand  the  steady 
grind  of  talk  directed  persistently  at  every  weakness. 

An  accidental  shot  to  the  middleman's  left  hand,  and 
an  apt  remark  about  left-handedness  in  general,  had  un- 


LEGS  13 

nerved  the  professor's  opponent  for  the  moment,  caus- 
ing a  deposit  of  several  easy  balls  in  the  net.  Further 
well-placed  banter  encouraged  the  irritated  middleman 
to  take  out  a  little  private  revenge  on  the  ball ;  result, 
a  walloping  "  three-bagger "  over  toward  the  Mount 
Airy  sky  line. 

"  Hard  luck ! "  the  young  man  murmured  in  mock 
politeness,  gazing  satirically  after  the  ball,  but  the  mid- 
dleman seemed  to  view  that  terrific  flight  with  deep  sat- 
isfaction. His  partner,  however,  scolded  and  advised 
him  to  be  "  steady." 

The  game  stood  "  four  all."  It  was  the  middleman's 
service.  That  looked  like  a  sure  win  for  the  young 
professor's  side;  that  is,  unless  the  middleman  grew 
cautious  and  canny.  Tennis  is  a  game  requiring  great 
strength  and  equally  great  delicacy.  The  middleman 
had  been  brought  up  in  the  produce  business.  For  ten 
years  he  had  assisted,  between  two  o'clock  in  the  morn- 
ing and  sunrise,  in  the  transportation  of  hundreds  of 
cases  of  eggs,  than  which  there  are  few  occupations 
requiring  more  combined  strength  and  delicacy. 

The  middleman  settled  down  to  business.  Balls  were 
served  with  the  wizard-like  dexterity  of  a  juggler. 
There  was  absolutely  no  "  breakage  " —  a  clean,  fine 
shipment ;  score,  5-4. 

At  the  same  time  the  professor  suddenly  slumped. 

He  missed  easy  shots  and  fouled  his  partner.  A 
young  person  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  side-lines  — 
it  was  one  of  the  many  Levering  girls,  although  one 
could  not  be  sure  without  one's  glasses  —  had  been  for 


14  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

some  time  deliberately  making  fun  of  him,  and  in  a  very 
stealthy  fashion,  too.  His  private  and  original  twists 
of  chin,  arm,  head,  even  the  crinkling  of  the  eyes  to 
avoid  the  glare,  these  had  been  sedulously  imitated. 
The  professor  put  the  left  palm  to  his  chin  —  a  thor- 
oughly characteristic  attitude ;  the  young  lady,  squat- 
ting like  a  tailor,  put  her  left  palm  to  her  chin  and 
wiggled  the  fingers  in  some  subtle  token  of  derision. 
The  professor  played  with  a  twisted  lock  at  the  very 
crown  of  his  head ;  the  young  lady  elevated  a  gorgeous 
bunch  of  her  own  brown  hair. 

This  mirror-like  mimicry  got  on  his  mind  and  caused 
some  extraordinary  tennis.  >  Yes,  she  was  one  of  the 
"  Leverings  " —  a  familiar  name  in  that  locality  —  but 
for  a  time  he  could  not  precisely  place  her.  Ah! 
Those  Leverings  with  the  outlandish  names,  Regina  ?  — 
Juanita  ?  — 

"  Hard  luck ! "  grunted  the  middleman,  with  a  sharp 
tinge  of  vengeance  in  his  tone.  The  professor  had 
served  a  monstrous  "  out." 

What  was  the  name?  He  cocked  an  eye  aloft  and 
sucked  in  both  cheeks  —  an  attitude  of  cogitation ;  the 
Levering  young  lady  twisted  her  head  and  neck  into  a 
Pre-Raphaelite  Pieta.  He  had  danced  with  her  many 
times.  He  had  played  tennis  with  her  at  —  ah !  Man- 
heim!  Manheim  Levering!  That  was  it.  No! 
Manheim  was  the  name  of  a  street.  .  .  .  Some  absurd 
family  name.  What  was  it?  A  bad  return  threw  the 
game  into  deuce.  He  clapped  his  hand  over  his  mouth 
as  a  sign  of  apology ;  the  Levering  person  : — :  first  name 


LEGS  15 

not  yet  recalled  —  immediately  hid  her  face  with  a 
spread-out  palm  and  peeped  out  between  the  fingers,  a 
sign  of  utter  shame  over  the  bad  play.  Keyser !  Jliat 
was  it!  Keyser  Levering.  Of  all  the  absurd  names 
to  give  a  girl!  The  Keysers  had  come  over  with  Pas- 
torius;  that  was  enough  to  justify  the  maltreating  of 
a  young  woman  who  —  gracious !  —  she  was  pulling 
her  nose,  stroking  it  gently !  Extraordinary  conduct ! 
Perhaps  the  name  had  affected  her  in  some  way. 
Names  do  react  upon  the  owners ;  few  Percys  ever  be- 
come valiant;  Percy  Hotspur  was  only  a  glorious  ex- 
ception. Pulling  the  nose  was  one  of  the  young  pro- 
fessor's really  bad  habits ;  he  had  struggled  all  his  life 
to  stop  it;  the  very  thought  of  stopping  gave  him  an 
uncontrollable  itching.  There!  he  was  doing  it  again. 
And  she?  She  was  polishing  vigorously  with  little 
finger  upraised.  The  minx! 

The  professor  suddenly  doubled  up  and  rubbed  his 
belt.  He  had  caught  a  stabbing  blow  "  in  the  wind," 
as  they  say  in  boxing. 

"  Game  and  set ! "  exulted  the  middleman,  and  then 
offered  satiric  apologies  for  the  knock-out ;  but  the 
young  man  heard  not;  he  was  busy  getting  his  breath 
and  watching  Miss  Levering  mimicking  a  gentleman 
doubled-up  with  a  tennis  ball  in  his  stomach.  A  man 
may  do  some  things,  he  thought  as  he  pressed  his  lips 
and  tried  not  to  wince,  that  a  lady  should  under  no  cir- 
cumstances do.  The  young  woman  was  certainly  not 
herself  that  morning.  Besides,  he  had  borne  the  blow 
like  a  soldier,  and  had  only  passed  a  hand  lightly  over 


16  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  burning  spot,  while  she  —  she  was  pantomiming  like 
a  child  with  the  colic. 

His  memory  of  her  conduct  on  other  occasions  gave 
no  hint  of  this.  He  recalled  a  quiet,  lady-like  person, 
mature,  solicitous  of  the  latest  news  of  Elizabethan 
playwrights.  The  miss  before  him,  sitting  tailor-fash- 
ion on  the  grass,  was  carrying  on  —  why,  she  was  puck- 
ering her  lips  like  a  —  but  so  was  he ! 

And  now  she  was  flirting  with  him,  one  eye  deliber- 
ately closed,  the  other  looking  up  mischievously. 
Could  it  be  the  heat? 

Finally  he  marched  over  and  accused  her  of  losing 
his  game. 

"  You  sat  there  telling  me  all  my  faults  in  sign  lan- 
guage," he  told  her.  "  I  got  so  interested  I  forgot  how 
to  play." 

"  Just  when  did  you  learn  ?  "  she  inquired  mildly. 

"  Well !"  he  looked  at  her.  Without  doubt  he  was 
an  erratic  player,  brilliant  and  simply  bad  alternately, 
the  sort  that  never  improves ;  but  he  had  not  the  least 
ambition  to  do  better,  so  the  satire  had  no  sting  for 
him.  "  Well ! "  he  retorted.  "  It  wasn't  yesterday." 

"  No ! "  she  speculated.  "  No !  It  couldn't  have 
been  yesterday ;  it  must  have  been  this  morning  —  after 
luncheon." 

Her  right  hand  made  a  vigorous  swish  through  the 
air ;  her  eyes  followed  an  imaginary  ball  which  obviously 
sailed  high  out  of  bounds ;  her  left  had  come  clap  over 
the  mouth  in  clear  chagrin.  In  a  flash  the  professor 


LEGS  17 

had  himself  dramatically  presented  at  his  worst,  but 
her  cheerful  laughter  saved  the  mimicry  from  anything 
but  good-natured  raillery. 

Then  she  told  him  how  to  hold  his  racket  for  certain 
plays,  and  instructed  him  in  the  theory  of  the  angles 
of  incidence  and  refraction  upon  which  both  tennis  and 
billiards  are  founded. 

"  Yes !  "  he  would  say,  and  "  Really,  now !  " ;  or 
"  Why,  we  learned  all  that  in  physics,  but  I  never  saw 
any  use  for  it ! "  But  his  main  interest  was  in  watch- 
ing the  bright,  eager  face,  the  frank,  brown  eyes  which 
looked  straight  into  him  steadily  and  explored  him ;  and 
without  the  slightest  gleam  of  —  well,  there  is  no  word 
for  it  —  the  sort  of  mature  awareness  that  is  rarely 
absent  when  a  woman  looks  steadily  into  the  eyes  of  a 
man.  There  was  health  in  her  face  and  a  dominant 
egoism  like  a  man's.  The  last  time  he  had  talked  with 
her  she  had  been  timid,  and  clinging,  and  feminine;  a 
thing  that  had  frightened  him  off.  He  remembered 
that  he  had  likened  her  to  a  young  aunt  —  visited  rarely 
—  who  used  to  throw  her  arms  about  him  without 
notice  and  kiss  him  back  of  the  ear.  After  much  prac- 
tice he  had  learned  finally  to  sense  the  beginning  of  the 
aunt's  attack  and  so,  in  a  measure,  defend  himself.  A 
pathetic  lookup  of  the  eyes,  dog-like  and  reverent,  was 
the  unfailing  sign;  just  so,  at  their  last  meeting,  this 
Levering  lady  had  regarded  him  as  they  walked  to- 
gether. Unconsciously  he  had  kept  one  arm  ready 
to  ward  off  a  possible  pounce. 


18  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Miss  Levering  had  not  the  shadow  of  a  pounce  about 
her  now.  She  was  talking  tennis  like  a  sporting  editor. 
Somehow,  the  professor  felt  sorry.  His  strongest  wish 
at  that  moment  was  to  be  attacked. 

And  he  wasn't  listening  at  all  to  her  harangue. 

"  You  must  watch  the  other  fellow's  swing.  If  he 
*  cuts  '  up  you  mustn't  *  cut '  down.  The  ball  is  turn- 
ing round  and  round,  this  way,"  she  illustrated  by 
swinging  circles.  "  If  you  spin  it  the  way  it's  going 
it  will  drop  dead." 

The  professor  was  watching  her  animated  face  with 
the  most  open  delight;  and  he  followed  her  minute  in- 
structions absolutely  not  at  all.  Simple  admiration 
beamed  from  him. 

"  My  dear  young  lady !  My  dear  young  lady !  "  he 
was  saying  over  and  over  to  himself.  "  I  will  never 
call  you  '  Keyser.5  It  is  the  name  of  an  emperor  and  a 
dog,  but  not  of  a  bit  of  humanity  like  your  delightful 
self.  Wonder  of  wonders !  Cosmos  and  chaos !  Who 
can  understand,  O  Lord,  thy  marvelous  doings.  .  .  . 
Male  and  female  created  He  them.  .  .  .  Eyes,  smiles, 
voice,  gestures  inimitable ;  soul,  being,  essence  —  what 
are  they?  ...  I  don't  know  anything.  .  .  .  Saw  her 
for  hours  at  a  time  and  never  noticed  her  till  now.  .  .  . 
Could  we  live  on  $600  salary  and  the  rent  of  six  small 
dwellings,  not  always  rented,  and  the  income  of  the  D. 
&  W.  R.  R.,  if  it  ever  pays  dividends?  Glory  be  to 
Peter,  what  are  eyes  made  of?  And  flesh  and  blood? 
Marvelous!  .  .  .  The  Lord  have  mercy  upon  us  and 
incline  our  hearts  to  keep  Thy  law!  .  .  .  Talk  on! 


LEGS  19 

.  .  .  I'm  not  listening!  It's  great!  Oh,  what  a  won- 
derful—" 

Then  he  spoke  aloud,  ejaculating  as  if  he  had  been 
stung  by  a  green  fly. 

"  Great  Jupiter ! "  he  shouted,  and  "  Bless  my 
soul!" 

She  had  stood  to  show  him  how  to  swing  his  racket 
for  a  "  Lawford,"  in  those  days  a  rare  stroke  among 
amateurs. 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  he  exclaimed,  staring  at  her  feet. 

The  young  lady's  dresses  stopped  at  her  knees !  As 
she  swung  about,  a  long  braid  of  hair  became  visible 
for  the  first  time,  tipped  with  a  dainty  bow  of  crimson 
ribbon. 

"  Say ! "  he  clutched  her  by  the  arm.  "  How  old  are 
you?" 

"  Thirteen,"  she  replied,  wondering  at  his  excite- 
ment. 

"  What's  your  name?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Gorgas  Levering.     Same  as  it  always  was." 

"  Thirteen !  Jupiter  Pluvius !  Arrest  me,  some- 
body!  Are  you  sure  your  name  isn't  Keyser?  " 

"  Keyser  is  my  sister." 

"  Thank  goodness  for  that.  Gorgas !  Bad  enough. 
But  Keyser  —  ugh !  —  Are  you  named  after  a  street?  " 

"  No ;  family.  What's  the  matter  ?  What  are  you 
looking  at  me  that  way  for?  Counting  my  freckles? 
Anything  wrong  with  my  feet?  " 

The  professor  dropped  on  the  grass  and  laughed 
himself  into  exhaustion. 


20 

"  Your  —  legs,"  he  got  forth  finally,  but  quietly,  so 
the  wives  on  the  benches  could  not  hear.     "  Legs  — 
gave  me  —  fright.     They  saved  you,  though.     Hadn't 
been  —  for  —  legs,   I   might  have   asked  —  you   to  — 
marry    me.  .  .  .  Thirteen!  .  .  .  Gracious!  .  .  ."     He 
sobered  up  suddenly  and  remarked  to  the  spirits  of  the 
air,  as  it  were,  "  There  ought  to  be  a  law  against  me." 

Miss  Gorgas  Levering  sat  down  again  cross-legged. 
She  pulled  her  short  skirts  over  her  knees.  Then  she 
wound  her  long  braid  about  her  head  and  fastened  it 
with  a  sharp  twig.  Demurely  she  looked  at  him,  as  her 
elder  sister  might  have  done. 

"  As  you  were  saying,  Professeh  Blynn,"  she  mim- 
icked one  of  her  sister's  college  friends.  "  Don't  let 
me  interrupt  a  pro-po-sal.  Small  offehs  of  marriage 
cheerfully  received.  First  come,  first  served." 

"  Your  face  is  quite  old  enough,"  Professor  Blynn 
speculated. 

Her  features  were  as  womanly  as  they  ever  would 
be.  Some  young  girls  achieve  that  sort  of  maturity 
early;  it  is  only  a  question  of  lengthened  skirts  and 
twisted  hair  and  they  grow  up  over  night.  Her  vocabu- 
lary was  strikingly  mature,  too;  sure  sign  of  much 
reading;  and  it  was  streaked  with  dashes  of  vigorous 
young  thinking.  Her  strong  coloring  heightened  the 
illusion. 

"  I'm  an  out-of-doors  girl,"  she  explained.  "  I  play 
tennis,  you  know  —  really  play,"  she  laughed ;  "  and  I 
skate  and  climb  trees  and  ride."  Then  she  told  him, 
with  comical  gravity,  that  she  was  the  beginning  of  a 


LEGS  81 

new  species,  and  asked  if  he  had  read  Gardiner's  "  The 
Femine?  "  "It's  an  English  book;  sort  of  pamphlet. 
It  tellr  about  the  coming  woman.  She  will  be  strong, 
first  of  all.  He  didn't  convert  me.  I  was  always  that." 

The  instinctive  teacher  in  him  brought  him  quickly 
to  her  level.  He  did  not  make  fun  of  her,  nor  patron- 
ize. Just  the  right  word  or  two  he  said,  as  he  lolled 
on  the  grass  and  deliberately  stuffed  a  brier  pipe, 
enough  to  take  her  off  the  defensive,  a  position  which 
every  intelligent  child  must  assume  in  the  presence  of 
superior  elders,  and  led  her  to  communicate  naturally. 
He  talked  to  her  of  modern  ideas  about  woman;  al- 
though his  own  ideas  on  the  subject  were  not  at  all 
formed.  "A  Doll's  House"  had  just  been  translated 
into  English  and  was  already  creating  no  end  of  stir. 
He  told  her  about  it.  The  story  of  Nora  and  her  vain 
sacrifice  caught  hold  of  her  active  young  mind.  He 
promised  her  some  books,  forgetting  completely  her 
years  as  he  had  done  in  the  beginning;  and  recom- 
mended a  lot  of  German  "  new  thought  "  just  emerging 
into  translations,  rather  shocking  reading  in  those  days, 
even  for  males. 

Without  any  self-consciousness  they  explored  each 
other's  faces  as  they  talked.  Certain  of  his  little 
twists  of  mouth  and  eye  —  he  had  a  habit  of  screwing 
up  the  left  side  of  his  face  as  he  propounded,  it  seemed 
to  assist  him  as  he  dug  the  idea  up  out  of  his  mind  and 
threw  it  from  him  —  these  she  stored  away  without 
meaning  to,  along  with  his  sudden  wrinkling  of  brow, 
and  the  odd  cock  of  the  neck.  Something  dramatic  in 


22  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

her  had  always  been  at  work,  seizing  the  high  pecu- 
liarities of  folks  for  the  sake  of  later  caricature.  She 
did  not  miss  that  sly  rubbing  of  the  hand  along  the 
nose,  nor  his  sudden  display  of  white  teeth  when  he 
smiled. 

As  a  rule,  he  lost  sight  of  his  auditors  when  he 
spoke.  His  classes  were  always  a  blur,  or  rather,  they 
merged  into  a  single  personality,  which  attended, 
squirmed,  laughed  as  a  complete  organism.  And  in 
his  successful  dealings  with  very  little  children  —  they 
always  received  him  into  their  intimacies  without  re- 
serve—  he  had  soon  discovered  that  the  best  results 
were  obtained  when  one  does  not  in  the  beginning  stare 
into  their  faces.  You  must  look  far-off  down  the 
street  as  you  parley  with  them,  or  they  will  catch  the 
assumed  interest  or  the  lurking  irony  in  your  eye,  and 
shy  off. 

So  at  first  he  only  glanced  up  at  her  occasionally. 
The  picture  flashed  upon  his  mind  was  not  at  all  that 
of  a  child,  but  of  a  young  woman  of  his  own  age,  yet 
infinitely  more  self-absorbed  and  independent  than  any 
he  could  recall.  The  chin,  grasped  firmly  in  her  hand 
as  she  leaned  forward,  the  strong,  searching  eyes  and 
the  coiling  braid  and  the  absence  of  legs  had  their  effect 
gradually  of  making  him  forget  that  he  was  dealing 
with  a  merely  precocious  youngster;  so,  as  he  warmed 
up  to  the  tale  of  Helmer  and  Doctor  Rank  and  Nora, 
he  shifted  about  and  watched  her  animated  brown  face. 

The  sun  and  the  wind  and  the  rain  had  toned  her  in 
shades  of  brown.  The  hair  was  black-brown,  the  eyes 


LEGS  23 

sepia  but  lustrous  and  alive,  the  skin  ruddy-brown  like 
a  young  Indian.  The  fat,  short-fingered  hand  that 
supported  the  chin  was  almost  cedar. 

The  illusion  of  maturity  was  enhanced  by  a  flashing 
interpolation  or  two. 

"  Women  mustn't  imitate  men,"  she  asserted. 
"  That's  silly.  Men  have  some  fine  things  that  don't 
belong  just  to  them;  that's  all.  Why  shouldn't  I  ride 
a  bicycle?  Why  shouldn't  I  play  tennis  and  get 
tanned?  Why  shouldn't  I  work  hard,  too,  and  get  all 
there  is  out  of  the  sport?  I'm  no  jelly  fish.  Chinese 
women  can  walk;  can't  they?  Well,  why  shouldn't 
they?  I  found  that  in  Gardiner,  but  I  thought  of  it 
myself,  long  before  that." 

They  discussed  a  possible  Chinese  woman  who  had 
revolted,  and  the  consequences  in  community  and  family 
persecution.  Then  she  hinted  guardedly  of  some  per- 
sonal persecutions.  The  mother  had  misgivings. 
There  was  talk  in  the  family  of  corralling  and  branding 
and  fitting  for  market. 

She  had  never  been  to  school.  She  had  fought 
against  it ;  and  they  had  given  in.  A  nursery  maid  had 
taught  her  to  read  and  figure,  the  rest  had  taken  care 
of  itself. 

He  admired  her  immensely  then,  she  was  so  careful 
not  to  show  a  partisan  spirit  in  a  matter  that  so  much 
concerned  her  happiness.  The  mother  was  quite  right 
to  wish  her  daughters  to  be  alike,  she  admitted ;  but  it 
is  not  given  even  loving  mothers  to  understand  all  about 
their  children.  Sacrifice  must  be  made  by  the  chil- 


34  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

dren,  she  knew,  for  mothers  must  not  suffer  too  much, 
even  when  they  were  unwisely  restrictive  or  made  laws 
just  for  the  sake  of  making  them.  As  she  spoke  thus 
soberly,  the  little  lady  seemed  really  older  than  the 
man  before  her. 

Then  the  spell  was  shattered. 

"  I  will  never  wear  a  boned  waist ! :'  she  broke  in 
frankly. 

In  Mount  Airy,  twenty-five  years  ago,  one  did  not 
speak  openly  of  invisible  clothing.  In  school  one  was 
taught  to  say  limb,  and  not  leg;  and  no  young  lady 
ever  admitted  any  public  knowledge  of  petticoats  or 
stockings. 

Then  Miss  Gorgas  Levering  yanked  the  twig  from 
her  braid,  stood  up,  displayed  two  lithe  young  legs, 
shedding  at  once  ten  years  of  maturity. 

He  stood  up,  too.  "  Gorgas,"  he  began,  and  then 
stopped  to  look  at  her  quizzically.  "  I  can't  get  used 
to  that  name,"  he  smiled.  "  With  '  Gorgas  Lane '  just 
beyond  the  Unruh  farm — "  he  waved  a  hand  jokingly. 

"  But  you ! "  she  cried  in  defense  —  she  knew  all 
about  him ;  he  was  "  the  professor  "  and  a  marked  man. 
"  '  Allen  Blynn  ' —  that's  a  lane,  too  —  Allen's  Lane ! 
And  that's  not  so  far  away,  either ! " 

Evidently  the  little  lady  was  sensitive  about  her  odd 
name. 

"  But  Allen  is  a  regular  name,"  he  protested. 

"  So's  Gorgas !  .  .  .  And  you're  *  Allen  L.  Blynn,' 
too ;  why,  you're  a  real '  lane  ' !  " 


LEGS  25 

"  Oh,  I  dropped  the  *  L  '  long  ago  —  when  grand- 
mother died." 

"  I  never  had  it !  "  she  exulted. 

"  But  the  '  L  '  isn't  for  *  lane,'  "  he  shook  his  head 
sadly.  "  It's  much  worse  —  it's  for  *  Lafayette.' ' 

"  Oh !  "  she  gasped  her  delight. 

"  Much  worse,  eh?  " 

"  I  should  say  so !  " 

"  I  take  it  all  back,  Gorgas,"  he  dropped  his  banter- 
ing tone,  and  shook  his  head  so  humbly,  and  smiled  so 
pleasantly  that  she  was  soon  mollified.  **  We're  both 
named  after  families,  I  see  —  the  kind  of  families  that 
have  streets  named  for  them ;  but  that  *  Lafayette '  of 
mine  is  worse  than  —  worse  than  even  '  Keyser  ' !  " 
Gorgas  laughed;  one's  own  name  is  never  funny,  but 
how  comic  are  other  persons' !  "  When  Lafayette  paid 
Mount  Airy  the  great  visit  in  1825,"  he  explained,  "  he 
made  a  very  formal  call  on  my  grandmother  —  kissed 
her  hand,  I  believe  —  well,  she  gave  up  the  remainder 
of  her  life  to  bragging  about  it,  and  she  hoped  to  per- 
petuate the  event  by  naming  me  '  Lafayette.'  Wasn't 
that  a  dreadful  calamity  to  put  upon  a  young  infant?  " 

"  Awful !  "  she  agreed  heartily. 

"  While  she  lived  I  had  to  be  *  Allen  L.  Blynn,' "  he 
smiled  ruefully,  "  But  '  Lafayette  '  died  with  her,  bless 
her  good  old  soul.  At  college  when  they  asked  me  what 
the  *  L  '  stood  for,  I  used  to  say,  *  Just  L.'  You  don't 
know  how  scared  I  was  lest  that  crowd  should  discover 
all  about  that  kiss-the-hand  business  1 " 


26  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

The  middleman  and  his  group  came  up  just  then 
and  joked  obviously  about  their  prowess  as  players. 

"  Getting  points  from  Gorgas  ?  "  inquired  the  mid- 
dleman. "  She  took  the  junior  cup,  you  know,  and 
against  some  smart  boys,  too.  At  least  they  thought 
they  were  smart." 

The  middleman  had  won  both  sets  that  afternoon, 
and  could  afford  to  expand.  "  You  know,  you  tutors 
ought  to  be  tutored  before  you  take  us  on  again.  That 
might  make  you  — " 

"  Astuter  ?  "  suggested  the  professor. 

His  grin  was  not  at  the  jest.  He  was  thinking  of 
Gorgas,  standing  erect  and  brown  as  young  Poca- 
hontas,  and  looking  very  like  that  famous  lady.  The 
frown  had  not  yet  gone  from  her  eyes.  She  would  not 
wear  —  !  Bless  her !  He  could  see  her  years  later  in 
all  the  tortures  and  disguises  that  women  permit  them- 
selves to  indulge  in,  including  the  ugly  balloon  sleeves, 
which  were  already  enveloping  very  young  girls;  and 
pyramidal  high-heeled  shoes ;  perhaps  even  a  "  bustle." 

Someone  asked  the  time. 

"  Jee-ru-salem ! "  whispered  Gorgas.  "  I've  got  to 
cut  it  home." 

"  Tell  your  mother  I'm  coming  by  on  Wednesday 
afternoon.  At  about  three.  I'm  looking  over  that 
Williams  boy  at  two.  It's  near  you,  you  know." 

"  Very  good,  Professor  Blynn." 

"  Mr.  Blynn,  if  you  don't  mind." 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Blynn." 


LEGS  27 

**  Stay  around  Wednesday,  will  you  ?  I  want  to  talk 
some  more." 

"  Very  good,  Mr.  Blynn. 

"  Come  around ;  you'll  find  me  in." 

The  frown  was  entirely  gone.  She  was  smiling  at 
her  own  "  poetry  "  as  she  moved  off. 

"  I'll  find  you  out,  too,  if  I  kin,"  he  threw  back. 

She  walked  two  or  three  swift  steps  down  the  path 
before  she  retorted,  without  looking  around : 

"  No,  you  won't.     You'll  simply  '  chin.' ' 

This  was  a  pleasant  blow  at  his  profession.  He  was 
a  talker.  Only  that  very  morning  he  had  written  in  an 
"  album  " —  it  was  a  day  of  albums  —  answers  to  ques- 
tions that  bared  him  to  the  core. 

What  is  your  occupation?     Deliverer  of  addresses. 
What  would  you  rather  be?     Maker  of  speeches. 
What  is  your  favorite  game?     Conversation. 
What  game  do  you  most  dislike?     Conversation  of 
others. 

He  watched  her  as  she  walked  swiftly  down  the  path. 
Good-looking  youngsters  do  hold  the  eye!  The  sug- 
gestion of  young  Indian  persisted,  the  ideal  Indian 
maiden  of  Hiawatha:  she  was  so  brown;  the  hair  fell 
in  an  enormous  black  braid ;  her  form  was  almost  curve- 
less;  and  she  strode  along  with  all  the  motion  in  her 
gliding  feet,  her  lithe  body  as  steady  and  as  straight 
as  a  young  poplar. 

She  disappeared  for  a  moment  in  the  dip  of  a  gully, 


38  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

then  rose  again  and  dwindled  slowly  down  the  long  path 
across  a  field.  With  folded  arms  he  stared  after  her, 
thinking  of  many  things :  of  the  beauty  of  young  child- 
hood, a  wondrous,  vanishing  thing;  of  her  active, 
mature  mind,  caged  up  in  that  child's  frame ;  of  —  at 
the  end  of  the  path  she  turned  swiftly,  as  if  she  knew 
he  was  there,  and  shot  a  hand  high  in  the  air  as  a  part- 
ing salute.  He  waved  back  instantaneously.  He  could 
watch  her  for  two  minutes  longer,  until  she  crossed  the 
railroad.  But  she  trudged  sturdily  on  and  did  not  look 
back  again. 


n 

GYPSIES  ! 

THE  Williams  boy,  a  well-built  little  man  of 
eleven,  was  a  healthy,  riotous  animal,  keen, 
fluent  and  right-minded  —  but  he  had  not 
been  "  promoted."  Blynn  had  found  this  out  in  an 
accidental  meeting  with  the  lad.  The  result  was  a 
regular  Wednesday  afternoon  visit  at  the  boy's  home 
with  a  new  sort  of  "  lessons,"  and  many  tramps  down 
Cresheim  creek  and  up  the  Wissahickon  —  the  core  of 
the  method  —  where  instruction  was  part  of  the  game. 
Blynn  had  the  teacher's  gift  of  presenting  unknown 
regions  of  knowledge  with  all  the  allurements  of  adver- 
tisement of  seaside  estates.  He  aroused  interest,  a 
desire  to  explore,  a  proper  pride  in  achievement;  and, 
above  all,  hope.  He  never  complained  of  stupidity,  nor 
expressed  the  least  impatience  with  slowness ;  so  in  this 
way  he  ever  stirred  up  latent  or  lost  personal  faiths. 
Within  a  few  months  the  Williams  boy  was  ready  to 
pass  into  the  next  grade  and  do  himself  credit;  unless 
the  well-intentioned  but  narrow  school  dames  of  the 
Hall  should  petrify  his  interest  and  with  daily  croak- 
ings  cut  off  all  communication. 

Gorgas  was  standing  in  the  fine  old  doorway  of  her 

home  when  he  came  out  of  the  Williams'  gate.     He 

29 


30  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

waved  to  her  cheerfully ;  she  saluted  gravely  in  return, 
one  lift  of  the  hand,  as  the  Roman  stage-senators  do. 
When  he  came  forward  eagerly,  his  severe  face  alight 
with  interest,  she  stood  watching  him  without  motion. 
That  was  a  characteristic  of  Gorgas  which  she  had 
possessed  as  a  baby  and  which  she  maintained  all  her 
life ;  it  gave  charming  dignity  to  her  later  years ;  active 
at  one  moment  as  the  famous  imps  below,  the  next 
moment  rigid  as  a  wax-work,  yet  thunderingly  alive,  a 
fawn  struck  into  silence,  listening. 

Not  until  he  stood  beside  her  did  she  move.  Then 
abruptly  she  thrust  out  a  hand. 

"  How  do  you  do,  Mr.  Blynn,"  she  smiled  an  absurd, 
artificial  smile,  the  perfect  mask  of  a  hostess.  "  Won't 
you  sit  down?  It's  awful  good  of  you  to  call." 

"  Wie  geht's,  milady?  "  he  bowed  in  perfect  under- 
standing of  the  game.  "  Excuse !  I  haff  been  talking 
zee  Cherman  Sprache  mit  dot  Wilhelm's  poy  und  I  can- 
not get  back  to  English  for  several  minuten  after-varts, 
af terwarts  —  afterwards  —  there !  My  tongue's  free. 
'Rausmitihm!  Gesundheit!  How  are  you?  Schreck- 
liclies  Wetter  —  I  mean,  sticky  weather,  isn't  it?" 

They  had  reached  the  living  room  by  this  time. 
A  glance  about  had  not  revealed  Mrs.  Levering  or  the 
older  daughter.  No  doubt,  they  would  be  forthcoming 
later. 

"  The  weather  is  rather  depressing,"  she  drawled. 
The  tone  struck  him  as  decidedly  familiar;  but  when 
she  opened  her  large  eyes  and  blinked  deliberately  at 
him  twice,  and  then  drew  a  languid  hand  across  one 


GYPSIES  31 

cheek  and  fidgeted  a  moment  in  her  chair,  as  if  to  dis- 
tribute an  imaginary  "  bustle,"  it  came  to  him  with  a 
rush  that  she  was  picturing  Mrs.  Williams,  whom  he 
had  just  left. 

Blynn  squeezed  down  into  his  chair,  thrust  his  head 
into  his  neck,  puffed  out  his  cheek,  a  recognizable  por- 
trait of  Mr.  Williams,  and  growled. 

"  I  don't  like  it !  I  don't  like  it !  I  don't  like  it  at 
all!" 

In  a  moment  or  two  they  were  caricaturing  the 
neighborhood  and  making  guesses  as  to  the  portrait. 

He  didn't  say,  "  That  isn't  fair,"  or  "  You  shouldn't 
mimic  your  elders  that  way  " ;  nor  did  he  begin  any 
sentence  with,  "  It  isn't  nice  for  3Toung  girls  to  — " 
Instead,  he  joined  in,  became  particeps  criminis,  and  at 
once  was  initiated  into  the  secretest  of  fraternities,  the 
brotherhood  of  children.  In  a  little  while  he  had  won 
the  right  to  ask  her  any  personal  question  he  wished 
without  once  being  suspected  of  school-teachering. 

He  wanted  to  know  what  she  was  reading. 

"  *  Man  and  Wife,'  "  she  told  him. 

Wilkie  Collins  wrote  it,  and  Professor  Blynn  did  not 
know  that!  It  was  about  a  Scotch  marriage,  she  ex- 
plained: two  persons  had  unwittingly  acknowledged 
themselves  man  and  wife  before  witnesses;  that  was 
enough  to  bind  them  in  irrevocable  marriage. 

Her  explanations  were  clear  —  evidently  she  knew 
what  she  was  reading  —  and  she  talked  of  marriage  and 
children  with  extraordinary  frankness. 

"  At   the   same   time   I   am   reading  *  La   Peau   de 


32  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Chagrin  '  par  Honore  Balzac"  this  with  a  breathless 
kind  of  mystery. 

The  change  of  timbre  as  the  French  name  floated  out 
musically  brought  Blynn  to  sudden  attention. 

"You  speak  French?"  he  inquired  incredulously. 
He  knew  that  she  had  never  gone  to  school,  and  that 
among  Mount  Airy  families  it  was  not  then  customary 
to  have  governesses. 

"  Assez  pour  m'  faire  comprendre,"  she  came  back 
quickly.  "  Et  vous,  m'sieur?  Vous  1'parlez  aussi?" 

"Where  on  earth  did  you  learn  the  language?  "  he 
showed  his  admiration  for  her  glib  prowess.  "  I  read 
easily  enough.  It  cost  me  the  hardest  kind  of  grubbing, 
too.  But  I  couldn't  talk  it  two  minutes." 

She  grew  suddenly  statuesque. 

"  Who  taught  you  ?  "  he  persisted. 

"  Bardek,"  she  whispered.  "  You  must  not  tell. 
You  will  not  tell?  " 

He  crossed  his  heart. 

"  It's  a  great  secret.  Mother  must  not  know.  Bar- 
dek is  Bohemian;  he  speaks  all  languages." 

"Who  is  Bardek?" 

She  lowered  her  voice. 

"  Promise  you  won't  tell." 

He  promised  readily. 

"  Bardek  is  a  gypsy,  I  think ;  but  he  doesn't  travel. 
He  lives  in  the  old  mill  in  Cresheim  Valley.  I  ride  in  the 
mornings,  you  know,  very  often  alone.  He  talks  to  roe 
in  French  and  tells  me  how  to  say  things." 

"  How  long  have  you  been  doing  this?" 


GYPSIES  3ii 

"  Three  years." 

"  Since  you  were  ten  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  that's  when  I  got  «  Gyp.'  " 

"'Gyp'  is  a  horse?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Cresheim  Valley  in  the  mornings  is  a  rather  lonely 
spot,  eh?" 

"  Yes ;  that  makes  it  fine !  There's  absolutely  not  a 
soul  about  between  seven  and  eight.  If  anyone  comes, 
I  step  into  the  old  mill." 

"  Merciful  heavens ! "  said  Blynn,  but  not  aloud. 
Nothing  in  his  manner  betrayed  the  slightest  hint  of 
anything  but  entire  acquiescence  in  the  policy  of  meet- 
ing gypsies  in  an  unfrequented  valley  between  seven 
and  eight  in  the  morning. 

"  He  teaches  me  other  things,  too,"  she  went  on. 
"  I've  never  told  this  to  anyone  but  you ;  not  a  person. 
We  seem  so  well  acquainted  —  after  yesterday.  Per- 
haps I  oughtn't  to  tell  you.  It's  been  a  terrible  thing 
to  keep  to  myself.  They  think — "  motioning  toward 
the  house  — "  I  pick  up  French  out  of  books,  the  way 
I  get  most  things.  I  do  hammered  copper  and  silver 
inlay,  too ;  Bardek  taught  me.  But  I  don't  get  prac- 
tice enough.  Bardek  says  one  must  give  a  life  to  it. 
He  makes  beautiful  things,  and  sells  them  to  rich  peo- 
ple." 

"  Do  you  pay  him  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no !  "  she  smiled  in  a  superior  way.  "Bardek 
is  above  money." 

"  Ugh  I  "  thought  Blynn.     He  seemed  to  remember 


34  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

a  dirty,  fat  man,  pounding  away  on  something  at  the 
mouth  of  the  ruined  paper-mill.  He  had  rings  in  his 
ears,  and  a  pair  of  huge  mustachios  gave  him  a  vil- 
lainous air. 

"  I  have  tried  to  give  him  money.  But  he  stopped 
all  that  in  no  time.  He  took  me  inside  and  showed  me 
a  cunning  box  set  in  a  stone  in  the  mill.  It  was  full  of 
gold  — oh!" 

The  "  oh  "  was  uttered  with  quick  anguish.  Blynn 
came  swiftly  to  her  chair  and  raised  her  head.  Tears 
were  flooding  her  eyes,  and  her  face  was  screwed  up  into 
a  horrid  attempt  to  suppress  the  noise  of  weeping. 

"What  is  the  matter,  my  dear  child?"  he  asked 
again  and  again. 

Several  times  she  tried  to  speak.  Evidently  from  her 
glances  toward  the  door  she  feared  someone  would  be 
aware  of  a  break  in  her  voice;  so  with  heroic  efforts 
she  shut  back  the  sobs. 

"  I  have  —  told !  I  —  have  —  told !  I  promised 
not  —  to  tell.  I  have  told  —  you.  It  is  —  all  right 
—  I  —  know.  You  would  keep  —  it  —  a  —  secret. 
But  it  hurts  —  that  —  I  —  have  told.  Bardek  has 
been  —  so  —  good  to  me.  It  was  —  wicked." 

It  was  simply  an  accident,  he  assured  her.  Quietly 
he  soothed  her.  "  We  are  pals  now,"  he  told  her. 
This  would  make  them  into  a  league  of  secrecy.  She 
could  trust  him.  All  his  life  he  had  been  a  father-con- 
fessor to  children.  He  was  tested.  Keeping  a  secret 
like  that  was  hard  for  her.  Now  it  would  be  easier. 


GYPSIES  35 

Some  things  are  almost  too  much  to  hold.  She  nodded. 
One  must  have  outlets.  Mothers  were  made  for  that 
purpose.  She  looked  worried  at  that,  so  he  took  a 
quick  turn.  Sometimes  even  mothers  couldn't  just 
understand ;  then  one  must  have  a  pal  or  "bust."  Her 
eyes  showed  approval.  A  pal  must  know  everything. 
No  secrets  from  pals.  That  seemed  to  be  agreed.  He 
would  go  with  her  to  Bardek  some  day  soon  —  she 
showed  half-frightened  wonder  at  the  plan  —  well,  they 
would  talk  it  over  like  good  comrades  later.  Someone 
was  coming. 

"  My  name  is  Mum,"  he  nodded,  "  second-cousin  to 
Dumb." 

She  gave  him  a  look  of  wild  approval  as  Mrs.  Lever- 
ing appeared  from  the  rear  of  the  house ;  she  was  dressed 
for  travel  and  hurrying. 

"  Why,  Professor  Blynn,  I  declare ! "  the  good  lady 
was  obviously  surprised  at  his  presence.  "  I  am  par- 
ticularly pleased  to  see  you.  Harold  Williams  has  been 
praising  you  to  me  and  telling  all  about  you.  You've 
done  wonders  with  that  boy  — " 

"  Oh,  no !  no !  God  and  his  good  mother  are  respon- 
sible for  all  the  wonders.  A  fine  little  fellow,  he  is. 
Somebody  got  on  the  wrong  side  of  him ;  that's  all." 

"  But  why  didn't  I  know  you  were  here? "  She 
looked  mildly  at  Gorgas. 

Blynn  hastened  to  explain. 

"  I  was  talking  with  Gorgas  last  Saturday  afternoon 
at  the  tennis-courts  — " 


36  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Ah !  You  came  to  talk  about  Gorgas.  Good ! 
The  very  thing  I  have  been  thinking  of  myself.  I  wish 
I  had  known  you  were  coming,  for  I  must  be  off  to  our 
little  literary  club.  We're  fined  if  we  don't  come  on 
time,"  she  smiled  as  if  the  matter  were  unimportant. 
"  Don't  let  me  seem  abrupt,  but  I  have  only  a  half- 
minute.  So  let  me  come  out  bluntly.  I  want  you  to 
take  Gorgas'  education  in  charge;  look  her  over;  find 
out  where  she  needs  patching  and  repainting.  I  declare 
she  has  grown  up  out  of  babyhood  before  I  am  ready. 
It  is  almost  ungracious  of  her.  I  must  blame  some- 
body. She  is  thirteen  years  old,  and  doesn't  know  any- 
thing. My  fault,  I  know ;  but  you're  a  wonder  — 
everybody  says  so.  You'll  do  it ;  won't  you  ?  .  .  .  Oh, 
yes.  I  must  be  practical.  Everybody  is  poor  now- 
adays —  the  Democrats  are  in,  you  know !  —  I  must 
inquire  about  prices.  What  do  you  charge  by  the 
hour?  I  must  ask  for  wholesale  rates,  for  Mr.  Lever- 
ing's  wholesale,  you  know,  and  always  gets  discounts !  " 

Generations  of  Pennsylvania-German  thrift  beamed 
coldly  from  her  eyes,  although  the  rest  of  her  ample 
person  actually  smiled. 

"  Absolutely  nothing  an  hour,  Mrs.  Levering." 

"  Oh,  no ! "  she  protested,  but  she  looked  relieved. 
"  I  will  not  hear  of  that.  The  Democrats  haven't 
brought  us  that  low  —  yet.  Although  goodness  only 
knows  what's  to  happen  next.  I  really  believe  they 
caused  that  blizzard  last  March !  Well !  We'll  talk  it 
over  later.  But  you'll  have  to  charge  something.  It's 
your  business,  man,  and  a  tough  job  you'll  have," 


GYPSIES  37 

twitching  Gorgas'  ears  affectionately.  "  Reading 
novels  and  riding  Gyp  —  that's  this  little  girl's  idea  of 
getting  an  education !  " 

"  All  right,  Mrs.  Levering,  we'll  talk  it  over  later. 
But  I  make  it  a  rule  never  to  charge  for  this  sort  of  out- 
of-school  work.  I  like  to  do  it.  It's  my  fun.  But  you 
may  give  me  a  dinner  occasionally.  We  teachers  do 
get  hungry  for  good  food  —  and  good  company !  " 

"  A  bargain !  "  the  lady  called  out  happily.  "  But 
I'm  off.  I'll  be  late.  You've  cost  me  a  quarter-dollar 
fine,  young  man.  Dinners?  If  you  do  anything  with 
Gorgas  I'll  take  you  in  as  a  permanent  boarder.  Day- 
day,  child.  Good-by,  Mr.  Blynn.  Sorry  I  couldn't 
stay.  Gorgas,"  she  was  at  the  door  now,  "  get  Louisa 
to  make  a  nice  cool  drink.  And  give  the  Professor 
something  to  eat.  Don't  ever  let  him  get  hungry ! " 
Her  laugh  carried  her  down  the  steps. 

As  they  picnicked  on  the  back-lawn,  his  instinct  told 
him  to  keep  away  from  the  Bardek  story,  to  act  as  if  it 
were  a  thing  to  be  forgotten.  Only  when  he  was  ready 
to  go,  and  she  seemed  to  have  an  unwonted  appearance 
of  depression,  he  repeated  his  promise  to  keep  the 
matter  secret  until  she  would  wish  him  to  tell.  This 
seemed  to  brighten  her  tremendously;  for  she  was  ter- 
ribly downcast  at  the  thought  of  her  failure.  Now  she 
seemed  to  be  almost  her  buoyant  self. 

"  You  did  not  tell  your  mother  I  was  coming,"  he 
remarked. 

"  No."     But  she  did  not  seem  troubled. 

"  Nor  your  sister  ?  " 


38  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  No,"  very  seriously,  "  they  were  both  going  out. 
I  was  afraid  if  I  told  them  they  might  stay  home." 

Then  the  comical  side  of  her  statement  struck  her. 
They  both  laughed  over  it  as  they  shook  hands. 

"  Goodby,  pupil,"  he  waved,  "  see  you  later." 

"  If  you  don't  forget  the  date-r,"  she  rhymed. 

"  I'll  sure  be  there,  I  beg  to  state-r,"  he  returned 
as  he  moved  off. 

"  Wednesday  next  at  this  here  gate-r,"  she  called 
after  him,  gleeful  to  get  the  last  rhyme. 

He  shook  his  head  and  threw  up  his  hands  as  if  she 
had  scored  heavily  against  him.  That  was  an  instinc- 
tive trick  of  his,  to  make  children  feel  the  keen  j  oy  of  a 
mental  victory.  It  gave  her  a  little  glow  for  hours 
afterward,  as  he  knew  it  would,  and  quite  saved  her 
from  a  far-off  conscience  which  told  her  she  had  not 
been  faithful  to  Bardek. 


Ill 

THE    OLD    PAPER    MILL 

BLYNN  found  himself  tremendously  interested  in 
the  business  of  teaching  young  persons,  but  he 
always  discounted  that  enthusiasm.  Scholar- 
ship, he  felt,  was  his  predestined  occupation.  Not  that 
he  really  knew  any  good  reason  why  the  work  of  a  delver 
in  past  documents  should  be  especially  worthy ;  nor  did 
he  ever  inquire  whether  a  life  given  to  Elizabethan 
dramatists  could  be  a  life  well  spent.  He  enjoyed  that 
sort  of  thing,  but  he  had  the  collector's  instinct,  not  the 
scholar's,  although  he  did  not  know  that ;  he  carried  on 
his  readings  and  note-takings  and  classifyings  as  an 
amateur  might  collect  butterflies.  The  figure  fails  in 
one  important  respect:  all  butterflies  are  beautiful. 
Better,  he  was  like  certain  dealers  in  antique:  ugly  old 
furniture  and  bric-a-brac  were  sorted  out  with  the  same 
reverent  care  as  the  really  beautiful.  Six  hundred  a 
year  —  the  beginner's  salary  —  seemed  a  magnificent 
return  for  tasks  that  he  would  willingly  have  performed, 
if  he  could  have  afforded  it,  without  money  and  without 
price. 

He  did  not  know  until  much  later  that  he  was  an  ex- 
ceptional teacher.     Youngsters  got  the  habit  of  confid- 

39 


40  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

ing  their  academic  troubles  to  him ;  and  whether  it  were 
algebra  or  English  grammar  or  poetry,  he  had  the  gift 
of  making  straight  roads  through  the  difficulties,  and 
of  charging  his  young  friends  with  desire  to  go  ahead. 

A  so-called  stupid  child  or  "  bad  "  boys  who  wouldn't 
study,  these  always  seized  his  interest.  Before  he  knew 
it,  he  had  a  dozen  young  folks  on  his  list  whose  whole 
educational  life  he  had  surreptitiously  taken  posses- 
sion of.  The  Williams  boy  was  one;  and  now  Gorgas 
had  been  added. 

Gorgas  Levering  was  an  interesting  "  case  "  to  Blynn. 
Through  unwitting  neglect,  the  child  was  out  of  touch 
with  her  parents  and  possibly  in  danger.  Evidently 
she  had  a  magnificent  will,  almost  the  only  thing  needful 
with  the  right  sort  of  teacher,  but  perilous  if  it  is 
coerced  or  left  to  drive  its  own  unaided  bent.  The 
thought  of  her  three  years'  intimacy  with  the  Bohemian 
Bardek  gave  Blynn  a  physical  chill. 

Bardek  had  done  wonderful  things  with  her,  the 
French,  for  instance ;  she  had  the  very  tang  of  a  native, 
even  the  shrugs  and  almost  inimitable  twists  of  hand  and 
head.  Blynn  recognized  the  method;  it  was  his  own; 
and  he  respected  Bardek's  results  as  a  fellow-craftsman 
would ;  but  he  was  not  sure  that  he  should  respect  Bar- 
dek's morals. 

She  was  the  most  interesting  of  all  the  children  he  had 
semi-officially  under  his  charge,  but  she  was  something 
else.  The  memory  of  that  illusion  of  maturity  he  could 
not  dissipate  by  any  amount  of  concentration  upon  the 
sum  of  her  actual  years.  She  had  come  at  him  first  as 


THE  OLD  PAPER  MILL  41 

a  young  woman  challenging  him  to  meet  her  on  equal 
terms,  and  had  stirred  him  as  Olivia  had  been  stirred 
by  the  disguised  Viola.  Some  of  the  suggestion  of  that 
mistake  continued  to  stay  with  him.  The  grave  brown 
eyes  searched  him  as  he  talked,  and  threw  him  into  the 
half-belief  that  some  witch  had  taken  a  woman  and  had 
given  her  the  shape  and  habiliments  of  a  child. 

As  he  walked  along  the  unfrequented  streets  of  Mount 
Airy  he  scolded  himself  aloud  for  his  shameful  imagin- 
ings; but  he  could  not  shake  them  off.  He  reminded 
himself  of  Olivia  fancying  herself  in  love  with  Viola,  and 
laughed.  "  Perhaps  it  is  not  Gorgas,  but  her  sister. 
It  really  was  brother  Sebastian  in  the  play.  I'll  look 
her  up.  Keyser  will  —  Kej^ser !  —  Bolts  and  shackles  ! 
What  a  name !  " 

One  day  he  contrived,  therefore,  to  chat  with  Miss 
Kej'ser,  and  so  they  arranged  to  spend  an  afternoon 
driving  together.  But  on  the  way  to  "  look  Keyser 
up  "  he  lapsed  into  a  contemplation  of  the  first  meeting 
with  Gorgas  at  the  tennis-courts.  "  If  this  were  Italy," 
he  grinned,  "  the  thing  would  be  simple  enough ;  or  even 
'  Little  Italy,'  " —  the  nearby  city's  Italian  colony  — 
"  Thirteen,  I  hear,  is  rather  the  proper  age  there.  At 
fifteen  the  little  Italians  either  have  bambinos  or  they 
are  on  the  shelf.  Wasn't  Lady  Devereaux,  Sidney's 
famous  Stella,  about  that  age?  I'll  have  to  look  up 
precedents.  Beatrice?  Dante's  Beatrice?  She  was  a 
'  fourteener,'  wasn't  she?  And  Juliet !  Ah  !  Juliet  was 
just  thirteen !  "  He  quoted  humorously  from  the  play, 
"  '  On  Lammas-eve  at  night  shall  she  be  fourteen ;  that 


42  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

shall  she,  marry.'  .  .  .  Guess  Shakespeare  knew  what 
he  was  about!  .  .  .  I've  had  a  sad  jar.  Those  legs! 
And  the  braid,  and  the  silly  ribbon!  ...  I  haven't 
felt  so  cheap  since  — " 

He  laughed  aloud  suddenly  and  set  a  frightened  little 
spaniel  barking  with  fury. 

"  Go  it,  old  boy,"  he  called.  "  You  aren't  half  so 
startled  as  I  was.  .  .  .  Well,"  he  nodded  his  head  vigor- 
ously. "  She  gave  me  a  little  insight  into  myself  and 
into  what's  coming  to  me  some  day,  I  expect.  The  next 
time,  I  hope  it  will  be  a  real  woman.  Just  the  same, 
I'm  going  to  be  always  grateful  to  the  little  witch  for 
the  deception;  and  I'll  pay,  too."  .  .  .  He  closed  his 
lips  with  determination.  "  That  Bardek  fellow  will  be 
looked  into  —  migh-ty  care-ful-ly,  I  tell  you,  boy.  .  .  . 
He's  been  putting  things  in  her  head,  I  warrant.  .  .  . 
Thought  all  that  wise  talk  was  second-handed.  .  .  . 
Where  did  she  ever  come  across  Gardiner's  Temine'? 
Heavens!  Why,  it's  full  of  rot,  just  the  sort  of  thing 
to  upset  a  girl  and  persuade  her  that  wrong  is  right. 
.  .  .  But  I  must  be  careful.  If  we  drive  her  sort  — 
He  threw  up  his  hands. 

Miss  Keyser  Levering  was  already  waiting  in  the  little 
two-seated  family  carriage. 

"  Am  I  late?  "  he  asked  cheerfully. 

"  No ;  I'm  early,"  she  responded,  digging  under  the 
seat  for  a  rug.  "  That  shows  that  you  don't  know  me 
as  well  as  you  should.  Some  people  are  always  two 
minutes  late.  My  specialty  is  being  two  minutes  early. 


43 

Jump  in ;  I'm  going  to  drive.  This  *  off '  animal  is 
*  Sorry,'  not  '  Gyp  ' ;  '  Sorry  '  has  to  be  handled  by  one 
of  the  family.  '  Gyp  '  is  never  in  the  stable  days  like 
this." 

At  the  mention  of  "  Gyp,"  Blynn's  mental  ears  stood 
up,  but  he  got  into  the  carriage  with  much  irrelevant 
jesting  over  the  relation  between  horses  and  horse- 
'  sense. 

"  Where  is  Gorgas  ?  "  he  asked  casually. 

"  Off  with  '  Gyp,'  as  always."  The  sister  was  not 
concerned. 

"  *  Gyp  '  is  mild,  I  suppose?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ;  stupid." 

'*  Which  way  did  she  go  ?  " 

"  Her  usual  —  down  Cresheim  Valley." 

They  trotted  off  toward  Chestnut  Hill.  Blynn  broke 
into  a  chatty  strain  until  they  had  turned  into  the  pike 
which  marks  the  county  line. 

"  Let's  go  up  the  Wissahickon,"  he  suggested.  "  You 
can  turn  off  here  and  go  through  Cresheim." 

After  leaving  Main  Street  they  plunged  into  the 
Cresheim  Valley,  which  in  the  eighteenth  century  was  a 
thriving  industrial  center,  with  prosperous  mills  — 
three  or  four  of  them  —  busy  at  the  manufacture  of 
hosiery  and  paper.  One  has  only  to  recall  the  con- 
spicuous masculine  leg  of  that  century  to  know  the 
demand  for  proper  hose,  and  when  one  is  reminded  that 
Cresheim  Valley  produced  the  paper  for  the  printing 
of  the  Declaration  of  Independence,  the  historic  setting 


44  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

is  made;  but  steam,  trousers,  and  a  less  rebellious  time 
had  passed  the  hand  of  oblivion  over  the  once  busy  vale. 

As  a  result,  the  old  road  was  ragged  and  rocky,  and 
the  only  sign  that  broke  the  effect  of  forest  primeval 
was  the  ruins  of  two  of  the  old  mills,  a  half-broken  dam, 
and  a  dangerous  looking  mill  race. 

Blynn  kept  to  the  safe  role  of  talker ;  but  inwardly  he 
chafed  and  worried.  Somewhere  down  in  those  leafy 
depths  an  unknown  foreigner  was  enticing  a  young  girl 
to  come  to  him.  .  .  . 

He  scrutinized  both  sides  of  the  road  as  he  neared  the 
ruined  paper-mill.  Tethered  among  the  bushes  he  knew 
"  Gyp "  was  peacefully  cropping.  He  listened  and 
watched,  but  at  no  time  lost  his  cue  in  the  small  talk; 
and  was  repaid  by  a  slight  movement  of  the  bushes  and 
the  sight  of  a  long  nose  reaching  for  green  branches. 

"  Sorry  "  neighed  in  greeting  and  stretched  his  head 
to  look ;  but  "  Gyp  "  withdrew  directly  to  munch  his 
bunch  of  leaves. 

"  Has  '  Gyp  '  a  white  star  on  his  nose?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  Do  you  see  her?  " 

"  No,"  he  looked  the  other  way.  "  I  just  guessed. 
Most  horses  do." 

Below  the  mill  he  claimed  to  have  dropped  a  glove, 
got  out,  and  ran  swiftly  back. 

Only  one  dilapidated  corner  of  the  ancient  paper-mill 
was  still  standing,  and  that  had  to  be  reached  via  a 
bridge  of  logs.  Canvas  was  fastened  over  holes  in  the 
roof,  and  odds  and  ends  of  boards  made  a  patch-work 
flooring,  through  which  the  rushing  mill  race  could  be 


THE  OLD  PAPER  MILL  45 

clearly  seen.     The  waters   below   swirled  noisily   over 
rocks  and  fallen  masonry. 

Save  for  an  old  stool,  some  rag  rugs  and  a  mass  of 
copper  odds  and  ends,  the  mill  was  quite  empty. 


IV 

"  THAT    NOT    IMPOSSIBLE    SHE  " 

ALMOST  as  Blynn  surveyed  the  empty  mill  he 
knew  he  had  made  a  mistake  in  coming  at  all, 
and  was  instantly  eager  to  get  out  unobserved. 
He  knew  what  a  child  would  think  of  this  sort  of  spying 
and  how  it  would  take  weeks  of  building  up  to  get  back 
the  lost  confidence.  Particularly  was  it  important  just 
now  to  maintain  the  genuine  intimacy  which  had 
miraculously  grown  up  between  them  in  so  short  a  time. 
As  he  stumbled  up  the  rocky  Valley  road  he  was  appre- 
hensive of  seeing  and  being  seen. 

Perhaps  Bardek  and  she  had  been  watching  from 
nearby  bushes.  That  thought  chilled  him.  Mixed  with 
the  fear  of  losing  the  child's  faith  in  him  as  trusty  pal 
was  the  quick  antagonism  against  that  other  pal,  who 
was  no  doubt  with  her  now  in  this  wild  spot. 

It  was  a  case  for  slow  treatment.  Hurry  would  spoil 
all.  To  come  near  the  rendezvous  at  all  was  a  grave 
mistake,  he  told  himself;  he  had  obeyed  an  impulse, 
purely  a  personal  one,  too,  and  it  was  an  impulse  which 
his  mind  should  have  resolutely  checked.  It  shamed 
him  a  little  to  think  how  amateurishly  he  had  acted, 
after  all  his  knowledge  of  the  mind  of  children. 

Gorgas  must  take  him  to  Bardek  in  her  own  good 

46 


"  THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  "         47 

time.  One  must  play  a  waiting  game  and  trust  mightily 
that  all  would  be  well. 

He  regained  the  carriage,  exhibited  a  glove  and  took 
up  the  dropped  conversation. 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  about  the  Duke,"  he  con- 
tinued. Miss  Levering  had  seen  "  Twelfth  Night "  re- 
cently and  had  read  it  over  to  prepare  herself  for  a  con- 
versation with  a  university  instructor.  "  The  Duke 
behaves  quite  properly,  if  you  will  agree  with  my 
theory." 

"  He  was  a  goose,"  commented  the  lady,  "  groaning 
over  his  countess  and  not  having  the  gumption  to  go  up 
to  her  and  talk  it  out.  And  in  the  last  act  he  whisks 
over  to  Viola  just  because  she  puts  on  dresses.  Shakes- 
peare nodded  when  he  made  the  Duke ;  that's  my  theory." 

"  Let  me  tell  you  mine,"  said  Blynn.  "  To  the 
Elizabethan,  love  was  an  infection,  a  kind  of  pestilence, 
like  the  plague,  which  one  caught  from  another.  Once 
you  have  it  you  are  ill.  You  become  moody,  put  on 
gay  clothes,  wash  your  face,  and  demand  sad  songs. 
They  sold  medicines,  love  philters  to  give  the  disease, 
and  hate  potions  to  cure  it.  A  chap  usually  knew 
when  he  had  caught  the  pesky  thing,  but  he  was  not 
always  sure  of  the  source.  Well,  the  Duke  had  a  bad 
case.  He  got  it  from  the  boy  Cesario,  who  was  realty, 
as  you  know,  a  charming  young  lady  disguised.  Now 
the  very  salt  of  the  play  is  the  Duke's  blunders  in 
guessing  who  played  the  trick  on  him.  The  Eliz- 
abethan audience  understood  that  joke  and  enjoyed 
every  one  of  his  false  moves  toward  the  conquest  of  the 


48  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Countess.  It's  as  if  a  fellow  had  the  influenza  and 
began  to  treat  himself  as  if  he  had  sunburn.  Every 
application  of  cold  cream  and  every  sneeze  would  be 
comedy  to  the  onlooker.  So  in  the  end,  when  the  Duke 
discovers  the  cause  of  his  trouble  he  promptly  marries 
it ;  as  most  of  us  do.  Oh,  he  isn't  a  bit  inconsistent,  if 
you  understand  Elizabethan  love." 

*'  Well,  that  only  proves  the  play  is  founded  on  an 
error,"  she  persisted.  "  If  you  must  have  a  lot  of  his- 
toric learning  to  appreciate  a  play,  it  is  not  great 
drama.  I  insist,  Shakespeare  nodded." 

"  What  makes  you  so  certain  that  love  is  not  a 
plague  ?  " 

"  It  may  be,  for  all  I  know,"  she  parried.  **  But  I 
should  think  two  modern  young  people  would  know 
when  they — " 

"  But  do  they,  always  ?  A  man  may  behave  exactly 
like  the  Duke,  have  all  the  symptoms,  and  not  guess  for 
the  longest  while  what  really  is  the  matter  with  him. 
Frequently  he  blames  it  on  the  wrong  lady.  Sometimes 
somebody  has  to  take  him  aside  and  speak  roundly  to 
him  —  the  girl's  father,  for  instance.  And  there  are 
enough  bad  marriages  to  make  me  believe  that  lovers 
often  make  a  wrong  diagnosis.  It's  still  a  mystery  to 
me.  Cupid  and  his  arrows  was  not  a  bad  theory.  He 
was  a  wretched  shot,  you  know ;  frightfully  bad.  That 
would  explain  a  lot  of  mismating." 

"  But  the  Countess  ?  "  she  persisted.  "  She  wanted 
to  marry  a  woman  just  because  she  found  her  dressed 
in  man's  clothing;  and  what  did  she  do  later? 


"  THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  "          49 

Promptly  switched  off  to  the  lady's  brother,  Sebastian. 
There!  I  have  settled  your  theory.  She  had  never 
seen  Sebastian  before.  She  couldn't  get  any  —  any 
pestilence  or  plague  from  a  man  who  wasn't  about." 

Blynn  laughed.  "  I  didn't  want  to  lecture  to  you ; 
but  the  theory  is  rather  complicated  and  you  have  hit 
upon  a  fine  illustration.  How  far  can  love  carry?  We 
say,  as  far  as  one  can  see  distinctly.  The  Elizabethans 
put  no  limit  —  as  far  as  the  ends  of  the  earth,  to  the 
very  stars  and  back  again. 

"  Beatrice  and  Benedict  are  in  love  long  before  they 
know  it.  Petruchio  has  picked  out  his  Katharine  before 
he  sees  her.  Viola  is  in  love  with  the  Duke  the  moment 
she  hears  his  name.  You  see,  they  took  their  cue  from 
the  carrying  power  of  the  mysterious  plague.  Look  the 
way  La  Grippe  is  ravaging  us ;  and  we  think  it  has 
travelled  from  the  Far  East.  Besides,  they  believed  the 
stars  arranged  all  this  sort  of  thing.  We  don't  believe 
in  fate.  Therefore  we  make  ourselves  too  wise.  I  in- 
cline toward  the  Elizabethan  theory.  Do  you  know 
Crashaw's  lines  'To  His  Supposed  Mistress'? 

'Who'er  she  be 
That  not  impossible  She 
That  shall  command  my  heart  and  me; 
Wher'er  she  lie, 
Locked  up  from  mortal  eye 
In  shady  leaves  of  destiny.' 

"  I'm  content  to  believe  in  '  the  shady  leaves  of  des- 
tiny.' " 

Miss   Levering  was  busy  managing  "  Sorry,"   who 


50  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

seemed  restive.  His  ears  were  perked  ahead,  and  he 
tossed  his  head  nervously. 

"  Sorry !  Sorry !  Sorry,  boy,"  she  soothed.  "  He 
sees  something  strange.  There's  a  man  sitting  on  the 
roadside  with  a  lot  of  pails  around  him.  Trust 
*  Sorry  '  for  picking  out  anything  unusual." 

Blynn  looked  forward,  but  from  his  side  of  the  car- 
riage could  see  nothing. 

"  It's  a  tramp,  I  suppose,"  she  conjectured.  "  They 
roost  in  here.  Looks  like  a  travelling  tinker.  '  Whoa, 
Sorry !  It's  all  right,  boy ! '  If  I  talk  to  him  he  calms 
down.  'Whoa,  Sorry!  Keep  your  head  down, 
boy ! » " 

The  man  came  into  view ;  he  was  seated  on  a  log  ham- 
mering at  a  copper  disk,  a  swarthy,  stoutish  fellow.  A 
huge  gold  watch  chain  stared  out  from  his  waistcoat. 
He  wore  no  collar.  A  faded  soft  hat  was  decorated 
with  a  long  turkey  feather.  The  costume,  plus  a  large 
mustachio  and  much  unshaved  stubble,  gave  him  an  air 
of  vagabondia. 

"  Sorry  "  slowed  down  and  dug  into  the  ground ;  the 
man  looked  up  with  smiling  face. 

"  Bon  jour,  la  compagnie!  "  he  saluted,  flourishing 
his  hammer.  Broad  rings  flashed  from  his  fat  hands. 

Blynn  searched  about  for  traces  of  companions.  The 
tall  bushes  gave  no  sign. 

'*  Bon  jour,  Bardek,"  returned  Miss  Levering. 
"Whoa,  Sorry,  you  fool.  It's  only  Bardek.  Bardek 
won't  eat  you ;  whoa,  boy  !  " 

"Mais,  out!  "  laughed  Bardek.     **  II  sail  bien  qu'  j'en 


51 

at  souvent  mange  du  ch'vdl!  The  horse  flesh  is  vairy 
good." 

Blynn  leaned  forward  to  talk  to  him.  Here  was  a 
fine  chance  to  get  acquainted. 

"  Good  afternoon,"  he  greeted.  "  My  French  isn't 
good  enough  to  expose  to  the  open  air.  I'll  have  to  talk 
English.  Do  you  understand  — " 

But  "  Sorry  "  had  evidently  comprehended  Bardek's 
cannibalistic  reference  to  the  joy  of  eating  horse-flesh, 
for  he  jolted  Blynn  down  hard  on  the  seat.  At  the 
syllable  ** —  stand  "  Allen  Blynn  had  abruptly  sat.  As 
they  shot  briskly  up  the  drive,  Blynn  looked  back  to  see 
the  round  face  of  Bardek  extended  in  malevolent 
laughter. 

When  they  had  settled  down  into  a  normal  pace, 
Blynn  inquired, 

"  Who  is  this  Bardek?  Seems  to  me  I  have  seen  him 
often  hanging  about  this  region." 

"  He's  a  Frenchman  —  at  least,  I  think  he  is  French. 
Sort  of  a  vagabond  mender  of  kettles.  I  don't  know 
how  he  gets  his  living.  He  seems  always  well-fed  and 
contented.  He  has  a  wife  off  there  somewhere,  and  a 
couple  of  babes-in-the-woods.  He  comes  and  goes. 
Sometimes  he  is  away  for  weeks  on  his  rounds.  We 
often  stop  to  chat  with  him,  Gorgas  and  I.  Drat  that 
animal.  He  ought  to  know  Bardek.  I'm  ashamed  of 
him.  It  was  that  big  vase-like  thing  that  scared  him. 
He'd  jump  at  a  new  tin-cup." 

They  talked  of  the  horses,  then,  as  they  emerged  from 
a  side-road,  of  the  beauty  of  the  Wissahickon  Valley,  a 


53  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

lovely  unchronicled  spot  in  American  scenery,  Miss 
Levering  steering  the  conversation  by  gentle  steps  back 
to  "  Twelfth  Night." 

"  I'm  almost  converted  to  the  Elizabethan  view,"  she 
admitted.  "  I've  been  going  over  in  my  mind  a  number 
of  girls  I  know  who  have  confessed  how  the  man  came, 
saw,  and  conquered.  Girls  do  gabble,  if  it  is  dark 
enough,  especially  just  after  the  marriage.  They  all 
talk  like  your  Elizabethans,  claim  to  have  been  destined 
for  each  other  from  the  beginning,  and  so  on ;  yet  they 
all  fought  the  man  off  at  first;  all  except  one  girl  — 
the  man  tried  to  get  away  from  her,  but  something  — 
your  c  shady  destiny  ' —  what  was  it  ?  —  got  him  at 
last.  .  .  .  It's  a  horrid  thought." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,  it  takes  all  choice  away.  Heavens !  You 
might  be  destined  to  marry  the  lamp-lighter!  I 
shouldn't  want  to  catch  anything  from  '  Aurora.'  " 

"  Aurora,"  the  lamp-lighter,  was  one-armed  and 
weather-beaten  and  gnarled  like  an  ancient  mariner; 
his  classical  name  was  a  Levering  invention. 

The  winding  Wissahickon  curled  over  its  rocks  far 
below,  and  thick  trees  covered  every  hill.  An  occasional 
carriage  passed,  mostly  elegant  broughams  with  liveried 
footmen  and  milady  taking  her  afternoon  drive;  bicy- 
cles whizzed  by  with  much  churning  of  warning  bells. 
Near  the  "  Hill "  Miss  Levering  cut  off  into  a  secluded 
side-road  roofed  by  old  trees. 

Keyser  Levering  was  twenty-two,  and  had  been  grown 
up  and  more  or  less  her  own  master  since  she  was  fifteen ; 


"  THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  "         53 

yet  she  felt  just  a  little  self-conscious  on  two  counts. 
First  she  was  alone  in  the  secluded  woodland  with  a 
young  man.  Of  course,  a  chaperone  would  have  been 
absurd;  America  had  adopted  the  European  chaperone 
for  only  very  official  affairs.  In  the  '80's  she  would  not 
have  thought  of  going  to  the  theater  with  him  without 
elderly  assistance,  but  she  was  permitted  by  the  code 
to  take  him  driving  up  the  Wissahickon. 

Secondly,  she  had  dared  openly  to  discuss  with  him 
the  awful  topic  of  love.  To  be  sure,  they  had  done 
it  in  an  academic  setting.  Who  could  object  to  a 
learned  consideration  of  Elizabethan  literature? 
Nevertheless,  she  was  not  unmindful  of  the  personal 
modern  application  of  Elizabethan  "  theory." 

She  did  not  want  to  become  personally  involved.  Her 
instincts  would  have  fought  off  any  attempt  on  the 
young  man's  part  to  bring  the  topic  up  to  date ;  yet  she 
found  herself,  mothlike,  desiring  him  to  do  just  that. 
His  Elizabethan  theory  of  maidens  disturbed  by  un- 
known forces,  holding  out  willing  hands  to  nameless 
gentlemen,  and  hardly  sure  of  recognizing  the  rescuer 
when  he  appeared  —  that  was  not  only  a  startling  idea 
to  her,  but  it  struck  surprisingly  near  a  description  of 
her  own  state. 

For  a  year  or  more  she  had  been  in  a  stupor  of  day- 
dreams over  that  "  not  impossible  He "  that  should 
command  her  heart  and  her.  He  took  no  visible  shape 
in  her  mind,  but  remained  near  and  yet  disappointingly 
aloof  and  shadowy.  Sometimes  she  had  the  palpitating 
feeling  that  he  was  just  around  the  corner,  that  his 


54  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

nearing  foot-falls  could  be  heard.  At  other  times  she 
was  sure  she  was  dancing  with  him  or  talking  to  him 
over  a  dinner  table.  Many  a  young  man  was  flattered 
by  her  searching  gaze  or  by  the  subtle  intimacy  which 
she  contrived  to  throw  into  a  simple  personal  question. 

Once  during  the  previous  winter  Blynn  had  been 
frightened  off  by  one  of  these  moods  of  hers,  and  she 
knew  it  and  was  ashamed.  The  last  thing  she  meant  to 
do  was  to  apprise  this  young  man  of  her  quest.  He  was 
being  probed  and  cross-questioned ;  that  was  all ;  but  he 
had  not  understood,  and  had  misnamed  her,  coquette. 

This  pleasant  jog  among  the  leafy  bowers  of  the 
Wissahickon,  charged  as  it  was  by  thoughts  of  Gorgas 
and  her  perilous  rendezvous  with  B'ardek,  caused  the 
professor  to  recast  his  idea  of  Keyser  Levering.  They 
had  talked  of  love,  to  be  sure,  and  she  had  held  to  the 
topic  deliberately ;  yet  with  her  eye  and  a  considerable 
part  of  her  attention  necessarily  on  the  horses,  she  had 
carried  on  the  chat  strictly  like  a  graduate  student. 
Of  course,  she  knew  the  man.  One  flashing  side-long 
glance  from  her  fine,  brown  eyes  would  have  sent  him 
flying  to  cover  and  to  silence. 

Along  the  shaded  road  they  stopped  to  admire  the 
wonder  of  the  place,  and  to  allow  the  horses  to  drink  at 
a  spring.  While  "  Sorry  "  and  "  Ned  "  cropped  the 
bushes  the  two  humans  nibbled  sandwiches  and  talked. 

Miss  Levering*  s  questions  showed  intelligence;  that 
is,  they  showed  that  she  knew  how  to  stir  up  the  lec- 
turer in  him.  She  wanted  to  consider  him  carefully ;  so 


«  THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  "         55 

she  prodded  him  gently  with  artful  interrogations ;  and 
kept  him  to  his  "  theory." 

"What  brought  Petruchio  from  Verona  to  Padua?  " 
Blynn  asked,  as  he  might  have  questioned  a  student. 

"  I  have  forgotten  the  details  of  the  play,"  she  re- 
plied, "I  think  he  said  he  had  come  to  marry  a  rich 
wife." 

"  Exactly,"  Blynn  nodded.  "  He  was  drawn  to 
Padua  as  I  have  seen  a  butterfly  drawn  unerringly  to 
its  mate  across  miles  of  country.  Of  course,  Petruchio 
didn't  know  what  was  sending  him  forth ;  any  more  than 
he  knew  why  his  diaphragm  was  pumping  air  into  his 
lungs,  or  why  invisible  Neptune  influences  our  tides,  or 
why  a  green  weed  will  suddenly  spring  into  a  gold  and 
white  daisy.  Life  is  so  crowded  with  intelligent  mys- 
terious design  that  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  anything 
happens  haphazard." 

"  I  wonder  if  my  young  man  has  left  Verona,"  the 
lady  commented  with  a  comic  sigh.  "  I'm  getting  on ! 
Twenty-two,  you  know."  She  shook  her  head  with  gro- 
tesque sadness.  "  He'll  have  to  hurry  or  —  I'll  be 
travelling  out  to  meet  him." 

"  He  may  be  nearer  than  Verona,"  Blynn  essayed,  still 
in  the  seriousness  of  his  exposition.  "  He  may  be  right 
here,"  waving  his  hand. 

The  outright  smile  on  her  face  caught  his  eye  and 
brought  him  to  earth.  "  All  right,"  he  assented 
cheerfully.  "  I'll  swallow  my  theory  whole  —  he  may 
be  right  here  beside  you,  for  all  either  of  us  knows. 


56  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

I  knew  a  chap  who  lived  next  door  to  his  future 
wife  and  never  guessed  it  until  one  summer  he  went 
abroad.  He  used  to  tell  her  all  about  his  girls,  too, 
and  get  her  help  and  advice.  Out  on  the  ocean  some- 
where it  came  to  him  suddenly.  Then  he  wanted  to  stop 
the  boat !  He  came  back  on  the  next  steamer.  Fact  1 
Fortunately  his  wire  got  in  ahead  of  him,  which  gave 
her  time  to  think  things  over.  She  was  most  surprised, 
but  she  had  to  acknowledge  that  he  was  right!  They 
figured  out  that  they  had  been  in  love  a  dozen  years 
without  once  being  aware  of  it.  Frightful  waste,  eh? 
They're  the  happiest  couple  I  know." 

They  sat  in  silence  for  a  moment  or  two,  each  think- 
ing a  separate  train  of  thought. 

"  Petruchio,"  she  turned  to  him  quietly,  "  would  you 
be  so  kind  as  to  get  out,  put  the  check-rein  on  '  Ned ' 
and  *  Sorry,'  and  then  hop  in  and  drive  with  me  back  to 
Padua?  " 

"  Ah,  Kate !  "  he  cried,  springing  out  of  the  carriage. 
"  Mad  Kate,  merry  Kate,  the  daintiest  Kate  of  all  the 
Kates,  and  sometimes  Kate  the  curst,  that  right  merrily 
I  will." 

On  the  way  home  he  induced  her  to  talk  of  Gorgas, 
and  as  an  elder  sister  she  entered  readily  into  a  discus- 
sion of  her  future  education.  She  told  of  the  child's 
fondness  for  boyish  sports.  Did  he  know  that  Gorgas 
had  won  a  huge  silver  cup  in  a  tennis  contest?  Yes,  in- 
deed ;  she  had  carried  it  off  matched  against  pretty  stout 
boys.  Quite  a  hoyden,  she  was.  Of  course,  she  was 
getting  too  old  for  that  sort  of  thing  now.  Something 


"  THAT  NOT  IMPOSSIBLE  SHE  "         57 

had  to  be  done.  She  agreed  that  whatever  it  should 
be,  it  should  be  done  gradually.  The  child  must  not  be 
driven.  So  Blynn  very  adroitly  filled  Miss  Keyser's 
mind  with  the  right  attitude  toward  Gorgas.  He  was 
sure  of  having  an  ally  in  the  work  he  had  before  him,  and 
one  that  would  not  in  his  absence  set  up  wrong  family 
currents. 

Twilight  was  settling  when  they  arrived  home.  From 
McAlley,  stableman,  errand-boy  and  gardener,  he 
learned  that  Gorgas  and  "  Gyp  "  had  not  come  back. 

"  She'll  be  'long  soon,"  McAlley  remarked  without 
concern.  "  Mebbe  '  Gyp '  is  playin'  lame.  He's  a 
scamp,  that  he  is,  a  scamp." 

Blynn  could  not  share  McAlley's  indifference.  His 
heart  beat  horridly,  and  for  no  good  reason  that  his 
mind  could  tell  him.  The  family  always  dined  late,  and 
the  household  was  run  on  a  do-as-you-please  system. 
Perhaps  this  child  had  been  out  at  dusk  many  times  be- 
fore. All  that  he  told  himself;  yet  terrifying  appre- 
hension seized  him. 

In  fifteen  minutes  he  was  plunging  down  Cresheim 
Valley,  now  quite  shadowy.  Up  the  hill  before  him 
came  a  slow  figure  walking  beside  a  horse.  He  dove  into 
the  bushes  and  watched  her  pass  him.  In  the  deceptive 
gloom  she  seemed  to  him  again  a  self-possessed  little 
woman.  Far  enough  back  he  followed,  within  him  the 
sickening  relief  that  comes  after  sudden  fear. 

"  I'll  never  get  used  to  this,"  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
lost  sight  of  her  in  the  dark,  when  she  turned  into  her 
own  lane.  "  If  that  lassie  belonged  to  me  I'd  see  that 


58  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

she'd  come  home  in  daylight.  She  has  no  idea  of  the 
risk  she's  running." 

He  could  not  discern  figures  any  longer,  but  he  could 
make  out  McAlley's  lantern  and  could  hear  the  voices. 

He  was  feeling  quite  peaceful  until  one-armed  "  Au- 
rora," the  lamp-lighter,  who  always  loped  along  half 
bent  over,  gave  him  a  fright  by  suddenly  bobbing 
around  the  corner  and  scuttling  across  the  road  to  a 
crazy  street-lamp. 


BARDEK 


Kuek-uck  1  Kuck-uck !  Ruf  t  aus  dem  Wald. 


THE  opportunity  of  making  the  acquaintance  of 
Bardek  came  sooner  than  Blynn  had  planned, 
and  in  a  very  natural  manner. 

The  instruction  of  the  Williams  boy  was  carried  on 
almost  entirely  in  the  open  air.  That  youngster  could 
no  more  en j  oy  himself  cooped  up  in  a  house  than  a  bear- 
cub.  The  moment  he  entered  the  shadowy  door  of  the 
schoolhouse  his  spirits  congealed  and  his  mind  began 
to  slow  up.  The  rooms  of  the  "  Hall  "  had  been  planned 
entirely  for  adults  —  so  had  the  discipline  —  and 
rather  slow-blooded  adults  at  that.  The  temperature 
and  the  ventilation  were  exactly  right  for  elderly  ladies 
and  gentlemen.  And  they  talked  to  children  about 
draughts !  They  might  just  as  well  have  worried  them 
about  sclerosis  of  the  arteries. 

In  his  adroit  way  Blynn  had  enticed  the  boy  to  play 
a  "  sort  of  game  "  with  colloquial  German.  Call  it  a 
"  game,"  and  the  lad  would  play  until  he  dropped ; 
and  by  letting  him  shout  at  the  top  of  his  voice  he  was 

easily  persuaded  that  it  was  not  "  study." 

59 


60  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

In  one  of  the  wild  paths  in  the  Valley,  where  the 
sumac  and  the  young  poplar  made  a  complete  screen, 
Blynn  and  "  Chuck  "  Williams,  loudly  reviewing  Ger- 
man phrases,  came  upon  a  voice,  rich  and  fine,  carolling 
deutsche  Lieder.  It  was  quite  near  at  hand  among  the 
tangle  of  blackberry  vines  and  elderberry  and  came 
booming  suddenly  at  them  as  if  purposely  to  startle. 

"  Kuckuck !  Kuckuck !  Ruft  aus  dem  Wald, 
Lasset  uns  singen;  tanzen  und  springen, 
Friihling !  Friihling !  wird  es  nun  bald ! " 

It  was  the  song  of  the  cuckoo,  which  every  German 
child  knows  from  the  cradle.  While  it  is  yet  winter 
the  tremulous  bird  catches  premonitions  in  the  air  and 
sings  its  eager  song  of  spring.  "  Let  us  dance  and 
sing,"  it  cries  to  all  the  woods ;  "  Come  out !  Come 
out,  into  the  blooming  fields  and  among  the  budding 
trees ! "  Carried  away  by  its  own  urging  desire  it 
flies  from  its  haunts  searching  for  the  Spring. 

The  great  voice  softened  and  grew  tenderly  pathetic. 
Ah !  brave  little  singer,  your  song  is  false,  your  throb- 
bing heart  has  lied  to  you.  Winter,  stark,  chilling 
winter  is  around  you  and  within. 

"  Kuckuck !  Kuckuck !  Treflicher  Held 
Was  du  gesungen  ist  dir  gelungen 
Winter !  Winter !  raumet  das  Feld." 

At  the  end  of  the  song  the  boy  and  the  teacher  ap- 
plauded vigorously. 

"  Bravo !  "  called  Blynn.     "  Once  more !     Encore!  " 


BARDEK  61 

The  bushes  parted,  disclosing  the  round  face  of 
Bardek. 

"  Griiss'  Gott!"  he  greeted  jovially.  "'Have  I  not 
now  heard  the  German  speech?  Die  siisse  Sprache 
meines  Vaterlands  ?  " 

"Yes,"  rejoined  the  astonished  Blynn;  "you  did 
hear  us  talking  German,  a  sort  of  German." 

"  Och !  it  was  a  sort,  yes,"  the  shoulders  shrugged 
cynically ;  "  but  it  was  German,  the  speech  of  my  coun- 
try." 

"But  you  are  not  German,  are  you?"  persisted 
Blynn.  "  Yesterday  you  were  — " 

"  Achi  Must  man  be  ever  the  same?  Yesterday 
was  I  French ;  gut !  Heute  bin  ich  wirklich  deutsch. 
Auch  gut !  Morgen,  veilleicht,  bin  ich  italienisch ! 
Hora  e  sempre!  " 

"  What  does  he  say?  "  inquired  "  Chuck." 

"  My  good  boy,"  Bardek  explained  in  clear  English. 
"  Yesterday  I  have  been  French.  Good !  It  pleased 
me  so  to  be.  The  day  was  French,"  flourishing  his 
hands  about  the  sky,  "  quite  French.  To-day  it 
pleases  me  to  be  German.  How  could  anyone  be  any- 
thing but  German  on  a  day  like  this?  "  waving  again 
toward  the  thick,  white  clouds  and  indicating  the  cool 
Northern  breeze.  "  Ein  tousand  em  "hunderd  ein  und 
zwanzig!  Was!  .  .  .  Now  at  this  moment  am  I 
North-German ;  soon,"  he  squinted  at  a  gathering  dark- 
ness in  the  southwest,  "  I  am  becoming  Eaynscher. 
It  rains  ever  in  Miinchen;  nicht  wahr?  Ach! 
Miinchen  is  a  heaven  of  earth  —  rain,  rain,  rain,  warm 


62  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

himmlischer  rain  on  the  outside,  and  bier,  bier,  cool, 
dunkels  Lowenbraii  on  the  inside !  " 

His  voice  was  heavy  and  deep,  the  bass  singing  qual- 
ity always  present,  and  his  intonation  noticeably  dis- 
tinct like  that  of  the  book-read  foreigner.  He  struck 
his  consonants  hard,  as  if  he  enjoyed  them,  especially 
the  final  t's  and  s's;  his  1's  trolled  along  the  roof  of 
his  mouth;  and  he  breathed  his  vowels  sonorously. 

He  laughed  as  he  stepped  into  the  path,  and  added, 
still  addressing  the  boy, 

"  When  the  sky  is  all  of  blue  and  pink,  so  am  I 
Italian.  My  skin  changes.  I  am  then  a  new  beast. 
Oh !  It  is  good  to  change  the  skin  and  the  mind.  Boy, 
don't  you  get  sick  to  be  always  the  American  beast?  " 

"  Not  on  your  tin-type ! "  "  Chuck  "  spoke  up 
promptly.  "  I  don't  want  to  be  a  Dutchman.  Rather 
be  what  I  am.  But  it's  fun  talking  Dutch  with  Mr. 
Blynr." 

" '  Not  on  your  tin-type,'  "  echoed  Bardek,  eyes  ex- 
tended in  mock  surprise.  "  Was  fur  eine  Sprache! 
What  a  language !  " 

Blynn  explained.  "  A  '  tin-type  '  is  a  cheap  photo- 
graph. *  Not  on  your  tin-type  '  is  slang  for  —  for, 
well,  for  '  Gar  nichts.'  " 

"  Not  on  his  tin-type,"  Bardek  rolled  his  eyes,  to  the 
great  amusement  of  "  Chuck."  "  Nicht  auf  seiner 
Photographie!  It  is  the  language  for  peddlers." 

They  chatted  in  mixed  English  and  German  for  sev- 
eral minutes;  at  least,  Bardek  did;  that  is,  when  he 


BARDEK  63 

wasn't  singing,  or  teaching  "  Chuck  "  some  good  col- 
loquial German. 

"  Uh !  Schweinerei!  "  he  grunted  in  smiling  disgust. 
"  Chuck  "  had  spat,  American  style,  at  a  passing  bee. 
"  '  Schweinerei,'  my  boy,  means  '  piggy.'  But  the  pigs, 
they  do  not  spit.  Only  the  Americans  spit.  Every- 
where in  America  is  the  sign,  '  Pray,  do  not  spit  here!  ' 
'  Pray,  do  not  spit  there!  '  Ach,  Schweinerei!  Vierte 
Klasse!  That's  a  good  word  for  you,  *  Vierte  Klasse! ' 
I,  I  am  of  the  Vierte  Klasse,  but  I,  I  do  not  yet  spit ! " 

Blynn  studied  the  man  before  him.  The  frank,  open 
manner,  the  voluble  utterance,  the  great  healthy  laugh- 
ter stole  into  his  prejudice  and  substituted  liking1. 
This  is  a  chap  one  had  to  be  friends  with;  yet  Blynn 
knew  that  good  fellows  are  not  always  harmless. 
There  was  something  coarse  about  the  man  that  re- 
pelled, the  very  thing,  too,  that  attracted:  his  un- 
spoken egoism,  his  quiet,  outspoken  self-satisfaction. 
Unconventionality  beamed  from  him ;  too  frequently, 
Blynn  knew,  a  sign  of  selfishness.  Would  this  fellow 
continue  agreeable  and  jolly  under  provocation?  It 
did  not  seem  so.  Or  if  his  strong  desires  met  with 
obstacle?  Law,  order,  the  rules  of  decent  society,  these 
he  probably  scoffed  at;  anything,  indeed,  that  de- 
manded restraint  or  curbing. 

"  I  tried  to  talk  to  you  yesterday,"  Blynn  remarked, 
"  but  the  horse  wouldn't  have  it." 

"Yesterday?"  Bardek  raised  his  eyes  in  inquiry. 
"The  horse  would  not?  —  Ach!"  he  roared,  "you  it 


64  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

was  who  —  Ho !  "  he  laughed  at  the  memory.  "  You 
say,  *  I  cannot  iwdersta.nd '  and  then  you  cannot  up- 
stand ! "  Bardek  imitated  by  a  pretence  of  flopping 
to  the  ground  at  the  syllable  "  stand."  "  I  see  very 
well  that  you  could  not  '  stand.'  You  could  not  but 
sit.  And  it  was  something  hard,  nicht  wahr,  when  you 
did  sit!" 

His  laughter  died  out  suddenly.  "  Wait,"  he  raised 
a  hand.  "  It  was  the  Miss  Levering  you  were  with  ? 
Yes?  Excuse.  I  must  see  about  something."  He 
really  said,  "  Som't'ing,"  with  just  the  suggestion  of  a 
studied  "  th,"  but  one  could  never  indicate  his  speech 
phonetically.  Sometimes,  the  "  th  "  was  clear,  some- 
times it  was  a  "  t,"  sometimes  a  "  z  "  or  "  d."  His 
English  varied  from  right  speech  to  a  broken  jargon, 
but  always  it  was  rich  and  clear.  "  Wait !  I  come 
back,  auf  der  Stelle,  in  one  moment." 

The  bushes  closed  in  about  him.  It  was  as  if  he  had 
vanished,  a  fat  satyr  of  the  woods. 

After  a  brief  moment  of  silence  his  face  appeared, 
and  it  was  eloquent  with  welcome. 

"  You  will  come  into  my  cave  in  the  woods  ?  "  he 
beckoned,  spreading  out  the  bushes  with  his  high  hob- 
nailed boots.  "  It  is  not  to  everyone  that  I  give  the 
invitation.  You  have  come  well  recommended  —  by 
your  faces  and  your  good  talk.  You  talk  German  — 
Dutch,  you  called  it,  you  little  Schweinerei!  —  Dutch 
it  is  not.  Dutch  is  good.  I  can  Dutch,  but  —  this  is 
my  German  day.  Today,  I  welcome  you  as  com- 
patriots. Tomorrow,  br-r-r,"  scowling  beautifully  at 


BARDEK  65 

"  Chuck  "  Williams,  "  I  may  be  French,"  he  glanced 
quizzically  at  the  sky.  "  Then,  you  shall  be  my  na- 
tional enemy  and  I  would  — '  Vive  la  belle  France!  A 
bas  les  All'mands!  "  he  roared,  making  mimic  charges 
at  the  delighted  "  Chuck." 

They  were  tramping  through  the  thicket  as  they 
talked,  shouted,  and  pantomimed.  In  a  few  steps  they 
came  upon  a  cosy  clearing. 

"  Wilkommen  alle!  Sit  down,  please ! "  Bardek 
pointed  to  comfortable  rocks. 

A  small  portable  tent  stretched  out  before  them.  At 
the  side,  smoke  curled  from  a  rock-oven,  which  was  at 
the  same  time  a  tiny  forge.  Bowing  before  the  visitors 
was  an  unkempt  Frau.  She  looked  forty  at  first 
glance;  in  a  little  while  she  seemed  not  more  than 
twenty-five.  Twenty  was  probably  nearer  her  right 
age.  In  her  arms  nestled  a  rather  overgrown  young- 
ster; tugging  at  her  skirts  was  another. 

"  My  summer  house ;  the  lady  of  the  summer  house," 
Bardek  explained  ironically.  Then  he  looked  expect- 
antly toward  the  tent. 

"  Bist  du  noch  nicht  fertig,  mein  Kindschen?  "  he 
called  eagerly.  "  Now  you  can  come  out.  Two  gen- 
tlemen—  entschuldigen! — one  gentleman  and  one 
Schweinerei  would  make  call !  Komm',  Liebschen !  " 

From  within  a  familiar  voice  responded,  but  in  Ger- 
man :  "  Just  a  minute,  Bardek,  please.  .  .  .  Now  I 
am  ready.  Konnen  die  Herr'n  rat  en  wer  ich  bin?  " 

"  She  would  know,"  translated  Bardek,  "  if  the  gen- 
tlemen can  guess  who  she  is." 


66  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Without  waiting  for  the  guesses,  he  lifted  the  flap 
of  the  tent.  Gorgas,  enclosed  head  and  body  in  a  great 
green  shawl,  stepped  calmly  out  and  courtesied. 

"  Gee !  This  is  great ! "  "  Chuck  "  found  voice  for 
his  glee.  "  It's  a  dandy  *  hunky.'  "  "  Hunky  "  is  a 
boy's  secret  hiding  place.  "  I  had  a  tent,  once.  Let's 
have  a  tent  out  here,  too,  Mr.  Blynn.  We  can  live 
here  and  cook,"  his  greedy  eye  was  devouring  the  per- 
fect stone  oven,  "  and  study  'rithm'tic  and  things. 
Can't  we?  " 

The  boy  took  Gorgas  as  a  matter  of  course.  She 
was  thirteen  and  a  girl;  he  was  eleven  and  a  boy  — 
those  differences  represent  leagues. 

"  I  heard  all  you  said,"  Gorgas  informed  Blynn. 
"  We  often  hear  people  going  by  on  that  path.  Your 
German  started  Bardek  after  you.  This  is  his  German 
day.  We—" 

*'  Chuck  "  was  examining  things,  with  Bardek  at  his 
side  explaining  volubly. 

"  Do  you  speak  German,  too  ? "  Blynn  asked  in- 
credulously. 

"  Nur  ein  wenig,"  she  replied  modestly,  but  her  fine 
tones  told  much.  **  Besser  sprech'  ich  fransosisch  und 
italienisch.  Ich  versteh' —  I  understand  German,  but 
much  better  than  I  speak  it.  The  '  German  days  ' 
don't  come  as  often  as  the  French  days.  Bardek  is 
all  German  today.  Listen  to  him.  His  English  gets 
German  twists  in  it  today." 

"Why,  it's  quite  jolly  here."  Blynn  seated  himself 
on  a  comfortable  stone,  and  assumed  the  air  of  a  man 


llt  looks,  almost  finished" 


BARDEK  67 

who  had  done  this  sort  of  thing  every  day.  "  It's  quite 
a  *  hunky,5  as  *  Chuck  '  would  call  it.  I'd  like  to  live 
this  way  myself.  What  man  wouldn't  ?  " 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  like  it,"  Gorgas  whispered.  She 
leaned  over  and  rested  her  arm  on  his  knee.  "  Chuck  " 
and  Bardek  were  inside  the  tent.  The  wife  was  grin- 
ning at  the  stringers  and  singing  a  gentle  lullaby. 
"  We  have  fine  times  here.  You're  the  first  person  to 
come  by  on  that  path  for  over  a  week.  We  sing  and 
talk  languages  and  Bardek  tells  stories  of  his  travels. 
He  has  been  all  over  the  world.  Some  of  them  are 
whoppers,"  she  dropped  her  voice  still  lower,  "  but  you 
can  tell  by  his  eyes  that  he  is  making  them  up.  And 
we  —  oh,  wait  till  I  show  you  my  latest." 

She  darted  into  the  tent  and  returned  with  a  disk 
of  hammered  copper,  a  dinner-plate,  partly  inlaid  along 
the  entire  edge  with  a  delicate  silver  tracery  of  a 
strange  Byzantine  design.  "  The  holes  had  to  be  all 
cut  out,  and  the  silver  filed  and  fitted.  It  must  exactly 
fit,  you  know,  exactly.  Bardek  scolds  if  it  isn't  right 
to  a  millionth  of  an  inch.  It  looks  almost  finished,  but 
there  are  hours  of  pounding  yet." 

"  What  is  it  when  it  is  cooked  ?  "  he  asked,  but  his 
tone  showed  his  delight  with  the  workmanship. 

"  Most  anything  —  a  cake  plate,  a  serving  tray,  a 
card  receiver,  a  fruit  holder  —  lots  of  things.  But, 
isn't  it  beautiful !  Bardek  made  the  design.  I  couldn't 
do  that;  but  I  did  all  the  hammering  and  annealing 
and  filed  all  the  silver.  Bardek  says  he  may  not  throw 
this  one  away." 


68  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"It's  a  beauty!"  admitted  Blynn.  "A  jim-dandy! 
By  George,  Gorgas,  I  certainly  do  admire  this.  But 
how  will  you  ever  take  it  home  ?  " 

The  shadow  of  disappointment  rested  for  a  moment 
on  her  face;  then  she  seemed  to  shake  it  off  resolutely. 

"  He  will  sell  it.  It  is  only  practice  for  me.  I  am 
learning.  He  uses  it  to  teach  me  hammer  strokes.  I 
made  the  Varri  stroke  on  that,"  pointing  proudly  to 
the  hundreds  of  soft  hammer  marks,  "  with  the  big 
hammer.  It  is  not  so  heavy  when  you  learn  how  to 
swing  it.  If  I  ever  get  to  know  how  —  well,  I'll  have 
it  in  me;  no  one  can  take  it  away.  Then  I  can  make 
beautiful  things  wherever  I  am.  ...  It  is  mean  to 
have  to  sell  things,  though  —  give  them  to  people  you 
never  see." 

"Yes,  indeed,"  he  touched  her  hand  lightly  in  un- 
derstanding. "  I  know  just  how  you  feel." 

"  So ! "  Bardek  pounced  upon  them.  "  You  are 
showing  it  off,  eh?  It  is  good;  very,  very  good."  He 
said  "  vairy,"  but  this  word,  like  others  of  his  English 
vocabulary,  had  many  pronunciations.  "  I  am  vairy 
proud  of  my  pupil.  Gorgas  — ' '  he  emphasized  the 
last  syllable  as  if  it  were  Gorgasse  — "  Gorgas  is  a 
golden  child.  She  has  gifts.  You  will  see,  some  day. 
I  have  put  some  of  my  art  into  her.  That !  —  the  little 
marks  there !  —  is  harder  than  it  looks !  It  is  the 
stroke  of  the  best  workman  and  the  biggest  miser  in 
Milan,  G'sepp'  G'ovan'  Varri.  I  stole  it  from  him. 
Ho !  I  go  to  him  and  say,  *  Please,  Messer  G'sepp' 
G'ovan'  Varri,  I  am  poor,  I  will  carry  charcoal  and 


BARDEK  69 

blow  your  fire  and  sweep  your  place  and  make  the  beds 
and  cook  you  good  macaroni  and  cut  up  cheeses,  if  you 
will  but  give  me  a  place  to  sleep.' 

"  G'sepp'  G'ovan'  Varri,  he  storm  and  curse ;  say  he 
have  no  room  for  beggars,  and  that  he  will  not  pay,  he 
M'ill  not  pay ;  but  his  ugly  eye  watch  me  and  then  he 
say,  *  Blow  that  fire,  you  — '  I  will  not  say  what  he 
have  said  I  am.  On  my  honor,  gentlemen  and  ladies," 
saluting,  "  I  am  not  that  thing  that  G'sepp'  G'ovan' 
Varri  say  I  have  been. 

"  Ach,  Himmelreiche!  How  I  work !  I  sweat  and 
pull  and  dig  and  carry  and  —  /  watch!  Tip,  tip, 
tappy,  tappy,  tap  —  oh,  so  soft  he  play  music  by  his 
hammer,  the  great  hammer  he  make  those  soft  touches. 
And  he  fires  much,  burns  and  hammers,  burns  and  ham- 
mers. In  two  day  I  try,  and  he  near  catch  me.  In 
free  day  I  say,  '  Goodby,  G'sepp'  G'ovan'  Varri ! 
Your  bed,  it  is  too  hard.  I  will  just  —  skeedaddle! 
and  take  with  me,  oh,  yes,  jus'  a  leetle  somet'ing  of  a 
idea  in  my  head. 

"  Before  I  leave  I  make  a  little  gift  of  farewell :  I 
make  his  secret  strokes  and  it  comes  out  a  design,  a 
great  goose,  and  the  taps  on  the  wings  spell  *  Varri.' 

"  And  now  the  beautiful  Gorgas  —  I  give  it  to  her 
for  what  I  pay  G'sepp'  G'ovan'  Varri,  which  is  t' 
gr-r-eat  not'ing.  If  I  stole  it,  well  —  der  Hehler  ist 
so  gut  wie  der  Stehler:  the  second  thief  is  cousin 
to  t'  first  thief.  .  .  .  Ah!  she  do  good!  Vairy,  vairy 
good ! "  He  held  the  work  up  and  admired  it.  "  Es 
gibt  nicht  schoneres,  nicht  wahr,  Kindschen  ?  " 


70  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Oh,  it  could  be  better,"  protested  Gorgas. 

"  Wass  hor*  ich? "  he  affected  great  sternness. 
**  Englisch?  Sprich*  Deutsch,  bitte!  Look  at  the 
heavens;  it  is  today  the  heavens  of  Deutschland. 
Sprich'  nur  Deutsch,  bitte !  " 

"  Oh,  not  German  now,  Bardek,"  she  laughingly 
begged.  "  Not  before  Mr.  Blynn  and  *  Chuck.'  I 
couldn't." 

*'  So  scheu!  "  murmured  Bardek  admiringly.  "  So 
shy  and  innocent.  All  right.  We  take  holiday.  We 
leave  Deutschland  for  America  and  English.  But," 
sadly,  "  it  is  t'  one  language  I  do  not  speak.  Only  in 
English  am  I  foreigner." 

"  Not  at  all,"  protested  Blynn.  "  Your  English  is 
splendid." 

"  Ah !  "  the  flattery  touched  home.  "  You  are  good 
to  say  it.  But  I  know.  In  Europe  I  am  in  my  home 
in  every  land.  The  Bohemian  knows  all  speeches. 
They  have  the  gift,  as  you  would  know  many  songs, 
glad  ones  and  sorrowful.  When  we  are  still  young  we 
go  to  countries ;  it  comes  to  us.  But  ah !  I  did  go 
to  England  never;  only  by  books  did  I  know  English, 
and  look!  Bah!  I  feel  I  must  spit,  like  my  little 
Schweinerei  here.  Books !  They  tell  all  lies.  In 
France,  in  Germany,  in  Holland,  in  Hungary,  in  Italy, 
they  would  know  me  for  compatriot.  In  America  I 
am  a  barbarian,  a  pagan,  a  *  Gypsy,'  a  *  Dago.'  Ach ! 
English?  Ich  hab'  cine  schlechte  Aussprache.  I 
know !  I  know !  " 

For  an  hour  they  debated  genially.     Before  the  meet- 


BARDEK  71 

ing  broke  up  Bardek  dropped  on  the  ground,  stretched 
out  full  length,  propped  his  head  up  with  one  hand,  and 
lapsed  into  silence.  Questions  brought  only  short  an- 
swers. 

"  It  is  time  to  go,"  whispered  Gorgas.  "  When  he 
gets  tired  of  people,  he  lets  them  know.  Don't  talk  to 
him  any  more ;  he  has  worn  himself  out  with  excitement." 

Gorgas  led  the  way  through  overhanging  branches 
without  a  word.  "  Chuck  "  followed.  Blynn  sought  to 
soften  the  abrupt  exodus  by  a  simple  wave  of  the  hand 
before  he  bent  low  to  avoid  the  briars. 

"  Kom'  bald  wieder,"  Bardek  grunted.  "  Sobald  als 
moglich.  Come  vairy  soon  again !  "  It  was  a  sincere 
invitation,  Gorgas  assured  them  —  Bardek  was  always 
himself  —  and  it  was  a  great  tribute. 


VI 

LIBERTE,    EGALITE,    FRATERNITE 

THEY  did  come  soon  again.  The  air  was 
gently  from  the  southwest.  There  was  a 
blue  summer  sky  with  high  lazy  clouds. 

"  Entrez,  m'sieurs,  mam'zelle ! "  called  Bardek,  and 
rattled  on.  "  Je  suis  enchante  de  vous  voir !  I  am 
delighted  to  see  you!  Ah!  when  you  were  here  last, 
the  weather  was  gloomy  and  German  —  but  today! 
Today  the  sky  is  beautiful  and  French.  Void! " 
spreading  his  hands  to  the  heavens,  "  Void,  la  France!  " 

"  Hang  up  your  hat  on  the  hall-rack,"  he  went  on 
gayly  in  French.  "  I  am  ravished  to  see  you !  Com- 
ment fa  va,  Chucks?  " 

Chucks  grinned  his  lack  of  comprehension. 

"  Comment  ca  va,  Chucks?  "  Bardek  extended  a  hand 
of  greeting.  "  Can  you  not  speak,  Chucks  ? "  he 
dropped  into  English.  "  Can  you  only  spit,  eh? 
Pfui!  *  Comment  fa  va?  '  my  Chucks,  it  is  '  Howd'y.' 
But  have  care!  Prends  attention!  Pray  do  not  spit. 
Id  c'est  defendu!  Here,"  sweeping  his  hand  in  a  short 
circle,  "  here  it  is  beautiful  France  and  here  it  is  not 
permitted.  Are  you  yet  German,  Chucks?  Must  I 
fight  you  ?  "  he  crooked  an  imaginary  gun  and  stood 

ready  to  charge  bayonets.     His  eyes  glared ;  his  bushy 

72 


LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE       7S 

eyebrows  quivered;  his  whole  body  strained  for  the 
word  of  command.  "  Conspuez  les  AWmands! "  he 
muttered  as  only  the  French  could  think  that  phrase. 
In  a  second  all  that  ferocity  had  vanished.  "  Non? 
You  have  not  yet  changed  your  skin?  Eh  bien!  We 
shall  keep  V entente  cordiale.  Vive  VAmerlquel  I  shake 
the  hand." 

"  Chuck  "  and  Bardek  extended  hands  and  wrung  an 
international  grip. 

"  Et  mam'zelle?  "  he  turned  to  Gorgas.  "  Que  veut- 
elle  faire  aujourd'  hui?  Sit  and  talk,  hein?  " 

"  Let  me  work  on  my  plate,  Bardek,"  she  asked. 
"  I'm  excited  about  that  plate." 

"  Comment!  "  he  bristled  at  her  English.  "  The  sky, 
it  is  all  of  French !  Au j  ourd'hui,"  flourishing  terribly 
at  the  sky,  "  il  s'agit  de  parler  f  ran9ais !  " 

"  Please,  Bardek !  "  she  begged.  "  Not  French  now ; 
after  while ;  not  now.  Please !  " 

"  Comme  tu  voudras,  petite,"  he  gave  in  finally. 
"  She  will  not  speak  the  French,  which  she  speak  like  — 
oh  !  —  like  heaven.  C'est  tres  curieux !  She  is  afraid, 
Mr.  Blynn,  that  you  be  critic.  Ho !  "  laughed  Bardek 
frankly.  "She  need  have  not  the  fear.  Pssst!  Mr. 
Btynn,  he  can  have  no  language  but  the  English.  And 
even  so,  the  little  English  of  a  little  town,"  pointing 
off  toward  the  village,  "  a  little  town  which  goes  to 
sleep  on  Sundays.  It  is  too  late  for  him.  Language, 
it  comes  to  children  when  their  ears  are  open  wide  to 
hear  the  voice  of  things.  When  we  grow  old,  sixteen, 
twenty,  thirty  —  malheureusement!  Peau  du  diable! 


74  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

—  it  is  too  late.  The  bones  in  the  head,  they  go  thick. 
So  with  all  things  —  after  fourteen,  fifteen,  the  mind 
est  ferme,  closed,  shut  up  tight." 

Gorgas  was  searching  in  the  tent  for  her  materials. 

"  So,  I  take  this  child  when  she  is  child  and  teach 
her.  You  are  professor,  n'est-ce  pas?  Oh!  You  have 
my  great  admiration !  You  are  —  pardon!  —  so  great 
a  fool !  You  think  you  can  teach  old  men  and  old  girls 
who  go  to  the  university?  How  that  is  comic! 
Wooden-heads,  they  mumble  words;  they  can  repeat 
what  you  say,  yes ;  but  they  can  never  do.  To  do,  one 
must  begin  in  the  cradle.  You  would  be  contortionist, 
juggler,  gymnast?  Very  well,  wait  until  you  are  twen- 
ty-five! Sh!  Non!  You  laugh?  Zen  why  you  try 
to  teach  old  men  of  twenty  how  to  think?  It  is  a  great 
fooling.  .  .  .  Oh,  well,"  he  shrugged,  "  zey  zink,"  he 
stopped  and  tried  again,  "  t'hey  t'hink  they  do  great 
zings  —  t'ings  —  bla!  "  he  made  a  wry  face.  "  I  can- 
not say  zat  '  th.'  It  is  one  language  for  those  who 
stutter,  the  English." 

Bardek  was  all  French  on  that  day.  One  could  al- 
most believe  that  he  had  really  changed  his  skin.  He 
seemed  sleeker,  cleaner,  even  thinner;  and  the  great 
mustachios  had  a  glisten  to  them  and  a  slight  waxiness 
in  the  ends.  His  bearing  was  more  courteous  and  con- 
siderate than  on  the  "  Deutschertag."  A  gay  kerchief 
adorned  his  neck  and  his  turkey-feather  had  a  jaunty 
tilt.  Even  his  English  had  the  very  flavor  of  French 
idiom  and  French  accent. 

While  he  talked  Gorgas  brought  her  plate  to  a  great 


LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE        75 

stone,  set-up  a  lead  block,  and  began  to  swing  a  rather 
large  coppersmith's  hammer.  She  barely  touched  the 
metal  as  she  beat  rhythmically  back  and  forth;  the 
weight  of  the  hammer  seemed  to  disappear,  so  cleverly 
did  she  keep  it  moving. 

"  Via!  "  pointed  Bardek.  "  That  is  the  stroke  of 
G'sepp*  G'ovan'  Varri.  Parfaitment!  C'est  bon! 
*  Tap,  tap,  tippity,  tippity,  tap,  tap ! '  It  is  music,  is 
it  not,  m'sieur?  She  has  the  delicate  muscle  for  that 
work.  Two  year,  three  year?  Non!  She  will  soon 
set  —  be  woman  and  marry  and  have  hundred  t'ousand 
children.  Ho !  — " 

Gorgas  looked  up  at  him  in  grave  rebuke. 

"  Ho  !  see  how  she  goes  red  and  charming !  The  little 
maggots  are  running  in  her  brain  and  making  to  wake 
all  kind  of  wonder  things  and  then  —  poof !  —  the 
school  is  done  and  life  commence." 

"  Chuck  "  was  at  her  side  watching  seriously.  He 
plied  her  with  questions,  eager  to  imitate  and,  boy-like, 
quite  confident  he  could  do  as  well. 

"  You  must  have  known  Gorgas  for  a  long  time," 
Blynn  began.  "  That  work  of  hers  is  really  wonderful. 
How  did  you  find  her?  " 

Bardek  squatted  on  the  ground,  produced  a  file,  and 
began  to  smooth  off  bits  of  sheet  silver.  He  glanced 
up  at  Blynn  through  crinkling  eyes. 

"  You  look  so  stupid,"  Bardek  threw  back  his  head ; 
"  and  it  is  right.  You  do  not  know  yet  how  much  it  is 
I  know.  You  do  it  well,  the  look  of  the  fool.  Good ! 
Gorgas  has  taken  you  for  a  friend.  It  is  well  that  you 


76  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

play  fool  for  her,  speak  for  her,  be  dumb  for  her  and 
if  it  need,  lie  for  her,  make  *  whoppers,'  as  she  calls 
t'em,  for  her.  I  like  you  for  that,  my  friend. 

"You  would  know  how  she  came?  Well,  she  jus'- 
came.  Three  year  ago  she  ride  by  on  *  Gyp  '  and  I  say 
*  H'lo,  missy,*  and  she  say,  *  What  are  you  doing?  '  and 
I  say  '  I  make  beauty  '  and  show  her  something,  a  small 
vase,  all  of  gold  and  copper.  Her  eye  grow  big,  so ! 
and  she  draw  back  and  say,  *  Are  you  a  gypsy  ?  '  and 
I  say,  '  Non!  non!  non!  T'ousand  times  non!  I  am  a 
Bohemian.'  And  she  get  off  her  horse,  tie  him  to  a 
tree  and  say,  t  Then  may  I  come  with  you  and  will  you 
show  me  how  to  make  beauty?  ' 

"  Zat  is  all,  my  friend,  and  she  have  been  making 
beauty  all  the  time.  She  herself  makes  beauty,"  he 
looked  back  at  her  tenderly,  "  wherever  she  go.  She 
is  always  serious,  always  in  great  thinking.  Zey  are 
ze  most  beautiful  children,  the  quiet  ones.  Gigglers? 
Bah !  Comics  ?  Zey  are  ordinairy.  Her  eyes  they  al- 
ways look  at  you  like  they  were  so  old!  Elle  est  tres 
sympathique,  my  good  friend. 

"  She  learn  —  ah,  how  she  learn !  —  "rite!  Comme 
fa!  "  he  snapped  his  fingers.  "  She  take  languages  like 
the  singing  sparrow  drinks  at  spring  water.  She  would 
be  Bohemian  perhaps ;  her  grandfather  or  grandmother 
—  who  knows  ?  In  America  everybody  must  come  from 
Europe!  See  her  brown  face  and  black  hair?  Ah! 
that  is  often  seen  in  my  country.  It  is  oriental." 

He  stopped  talking  to  gaze  at  her  at  work. 

Blynn  took  the  chance  to  tell  of  many  things.     He 


LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE        77 

sketched  in  the  mother  and  the  Levering  household.  He 
told  of  schools  and  all  the  business  of  bringing  up  young 
girls  to  be  gay,  delicate  do-nothings  until  some  man 
should  be  attracted  by  their  frailty  and  marry  them. 

Bardek  exploded  many  times.  His  theories  of  edu- 
cation for  girls  were  not  the  prevailing  ones  in  America. 
Everybody  should  learn  to  work,  he  believed.  The 
highest  trade  of  all  is  that  of  a  maker  of  beauty.  Those 
few  who  can,  should  have  material,  tools  and  infinite 
leisure.  They  were  the  only  aristocrats ;  and  among 
them  there  should  be  no  fakirs.  The  university  doctor 
may  be  a  fool ;  he  usually  is  a  fool,  averred  Bardek ;  but 
no  one  cares;  he  can  do  little  harm.  But  with  things 
of  beauty  there  should  be  no  such  trifling.  Learning 
was  no  great  matter;  no  scholar  has  learning  enough 
to  reconstruct  the  broken  wing  of  a  beetle;  the  world 
wags  very  well  when  learning  is  asleep.  But  beauty  is 
important;  one  must  choose  ever  between  beauty  and 
death. 

Those  who  could  not  minister  to  the  esthetic  needs 
should  take  their  turn  at  the  fetching,  lifting  and  carry- 
ing, the  portering  of  life.  That  is  their  happiness, 
their  beauty. 

"  Look  at  my  wife,"  he  illustrated,  nudging  toward 
the  tent.  "  She  has  not  the  skill,  the  art.  Good ! 
But  she  work,  and  carry  a  pack,  and  do  everything 
right  for  the  babies ;  and  she  is  happy,  working,  work- 
ing, working  all  the  day.  When  she  work  and  I  work, 
we  sing  songs  of  Hungary  where  she  live.  That  is  fine. 
Woman  must  not  be  waxworks !  Sapristi!  The  good 


78  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Lord  has  give  them  a  job,  my  friend.  Nom  d'une 
pipe!"  he  sighed  softly.  "A  big  job!  It  needs  zat 
zey  get  ready  for  it." 

In  the  spaces  between  Bardek's  speeches  Blynn  tried 
to  hint  of  the  trouble  that  would  come  to  Gorgas  if  it 
were  known  at  home  how  she  had  spent  her  time  off  in 
the  Cresheim  woods. 

Bardek  was  not  concerned;  when  a  man  is  right  he 
does  not  worry  his  head  about  what  others  will  think. 
If  he  had  bothered  himself  over  the  opinions  of  small 
minds  he  would  have  stayed  in  Hungary  and  sold  to- 
bacco and  postage  stamps.  No!  Liberty  is  worth 
paying  much  for;  and  when  there  is  fear  of  criticism, 
liberty  is  dead. 

Bah !  The  fat  mother  would  not  know  a  golden  child 
from  a  salade  de  tomate.  Doubtless  she  would  scold  a 
little.  His  wife,  she  scolds.  It  is  nothing;  it  passes 
off  and  away  like  steam  in  the  air.  What  one  has,  one 
has ;  all  the  scoldings  of  all  the  little  people  in  the  world 
cannot  alter  it;  on  earth  there  is  no  judge  but  oneself. 

"  Already,"  he  said,  "  the  little  Gorgas  has  more 
than  all  those  copy-kittens  who  went  to  school  and  sat 
at  wooden  desks  in  the  dark  little  rooms  and  listened  to 
nice  old  ladies  tell  how  to  be  jus'  waxworks.  In  her 
arm,  in  the  ends  of  all  her  fingers,  in  her  eye  and  on  her 
tongue  and  in  her  brain,  too,  she  has  beauty,  and  the 
power  to  make  beauty. 

"  You,  you,  my  friend,  have  studied  in  the  univer- 
sity. Try  it  out  with  the  little  Gorgas.  What  do  you 
know  that  she  does  not  know  better?  Do  you  know 


LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE       79 

better  how  high  is  heaven  and  how  wide  are  the  angels' 
wings?  You  have  studied  languages,  and  you  know 
German  —  a  sort  of  German,  ho  1  —  and  French  and 
Italian,  perhaps ;  and  you  will  always  be  foreigner  there 
and  a  fool :  but  she,  the  little  Gorgas  that  I  teach,  she 
is  German  and  she  is  French  and  she  is  Italian." 

He  stopped  his  work  for  a  moment  to  show  her  how 
to  smooth  off  the  inlay  without  disturbing  the  fine  sur- 
face of  the  beaten  copper. 

"  Let  us  sing  for  them,  my  pretty  one,"  he  coaxed 
in  French.  "  You  are  some  of  the  beauty  that  I  have 
made.  I  want  to  show  you  off,  exhibit  you,  prove  my 
skill.  What  shall  it  be?"  He  ran  through  several 
simple  songs  of  childhood.  Reluctantly  she  agreed, 
only  to  please  him  as  he  knew,  and  together  they  sang 
a  lively  air.  It  was  about  life  on  the  winding  roads, 
and  there  was  a  chorus  of  jolly  tappings  which  they  did 
lightly  with  their  hammers. 

"  That  is  liberty,"  Bardek  commented.  "  In  France 
they  have  not  liberty  except  painted  on  every  sign  post. 
*  Liberte,  fraternite,  equalite! '  La,  la,  la,  la,  la!  It 
is  the  great  national  joke!  America?  Non!  'The 
land  of  the  brave,'  "  he  sang  nasally  in  burlesque,  "  '  and 
the  ho-o-me  of  the  f re-e-e ! '  Ho !  that  is  vairy,  vairy 
comic."  He  wiped  the  tears  of  laughter  from  his  eyes. 
"  Very  comic !  I  come  to  the  land  of  liberty,  *  the 
ho-o-me  of  the  free  '  and  I  cannot  sell  my  work  without 
I  get  a  permit  for  which  I  must  pay ;  and  in  each  spot 
I  must  have  new  one.  I  cannot  live  as  I  please.  The 
people  say,  *  Phieu!  go  away,  ugly  man.  You  have  no 


80  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

soul,  for  you  have  no  stiff  white  collar.  Tie  up  the 
neck  with  white  peekadilly  and  we  give  you  liberty  to 
live  by  us ! '  I  have  not  liberty  to  drink  my  beer  or 
smoke  when  I  please. 

"  And  Miss  Gorgas,  she  cannot  learn  to  make  beauti- 
ful things.  She  cannot  tell  her  mother  she  come  to  me. 
She  must  sneak  like  a  thief  and  lie.  It  is  not  good,  that 
kind  of  liberty.  Liberty  is  a  great  thing,  my  friend. 
You  all  go  mad  and  have  red-fire  and  elections  and 
speeches  and  big  ugly  bands  and  Mr.  Cleveland  is  made 
president,  and  helas!  millions  of  free  Americans  weep, 
weep,  weep  zet  zeh  must  have  Mr.  Cleveland  for  presi- 
dent. America  is  not  the  land  of  liberty.  It  is  the 
land  of  prohibition,  yes ;  sobriety,  yes ;  uniformity,  yes ; 
but  here  is  not  liberty.  Of  all  peoples  in  Mount  Airy 
only  I  perhaps  have  liberty.  You  would  not  want  to 
live  like  me,  eh?  You  look  at  me.  Zut!  I  read  you 
mind.  You  say,  *  Not  on  your  tin-type ! '  Then  you 
do  not  much  care  for  liberty." 

Many  such  days  the  little  group  had  together.  Ger- 
man days,  French  days,  Italian  days  came  in  regular 
succession.  "  Chuck "  disputed  with  him  about  the 
days,  and  Bardek  took  great  joy  in  his  wordy  battles 
over  the  sort  of  weather  that  prevailed.  To  all  but 
"  Chuck "  it  was  quite  evident  that  his  succession  of 
days  was  a  transparent  device  to  give  Gorgas  constant 
exercise  in  the  fluent,  living  language ;  but  save  for  the 
laughing  eyes  and  occasional  wink,  he  stoutly  stood  for 
the  theory  that  the  weather  made  his  skin  change. 
Bohemians,  he  claimed,  belonged  to  no  country  and  to 


LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE       81 

every  country  and  were  doomed  all  their  lives  to  slip 
back  and  forth  through  various  national  personalities. 
The  weather  did  it. 

"  You  have  only  one  country ! "  he  told  "  Chuck  " 
scornfully.  "  How  sorry  I  am  for  you !  So  you  hoo- 
ray for  the  stars  and  stripes,  and  you  make  the  grand 
racket  on  the  Fourt'  of  July,  an'  you  rage  at  Sout' 
America,  and  Europe,  an'  all  the  other  little  peoples. 
Poof ! "  he  blew  himself  up  into  his  own  notion  of  the 
spread-eagle  American  orator.  "  You  could  fight  the 
whole  wor-r-ld,  wit'  hands  tied  behind  the  back  —  and 
the  whole  wor-r-ld  would  laugh  in  zere  sleeve,  and  make 
such  pictures  in  the  comic  papers,  about  which  you 
would  know  nothing.  Oh,  how  sorry  I  am  for  you, 
Chucks,  who  have  only  one  country,  when  I,  Bardek, 
have  so  many!  In  France  I  sing  the  Marseillaise  on 
the  fourteen  of  July ;  in  Germany  I  celebrate  the  eight- 
een of  January,  the  birthday  of  the  Empire;  and  in 
Poland,  on  the  twelve  of  September,  I  drink  to  Sobieski, 
who  saved  Poland  from  the  Turk  —  an'  at  no  time  do 
I  rage,  and  make  boasts  at  any  country.  You  are 
proud  of  only  one  land,  Chucks;  I,  Bardek,  am  home- 
sick for  all  the  wor-r-ld !  " 

One  day  when  they  went  back  through  the  hidden 
path  and  under  the  arch  of  briers  into  the  enclosure, 
not  a  vestige  of  Bardek  and  his  belongings  remained. 

"  He  will  come  back  when  he  wishes  to  be  here  again," 
Gorgas  explained,  with  just  a  shade  of  disappointment. 
But  she  did  not  wholly  conceal  her  gratification. 
Lately  she  had  been  feeling  terribly  guilty  over  her 


82  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

clandestine  meetings  with  the  Bohemian.  She  could 
date  the  beginning  of  her  worry  over  the  matter.  It 
had  come  suddenly  in  the  night  when  she  awoke  trem- 
bling and  weeping  over  she  knew  not  what.  Fires 
burned  in  her,  and  she  discovered  an  intense  longing  to 
give  up  what  had  been  heretofore  the  most  helpful  ex- 
perience in  her  life:  her  solitude,  her  freedom  from  the 
necessity  of  communicating.  Now  she  cried  out  for  a 
brother  or  a  sister  or  a  mother  to  whom  she  could  tell 
everything,  even  trivial  things.  Until  now  she  had 
fared  alone,  self-sufficient  as  a  tree,  and  had  never 
spoken  to  anyone,  even  to  Bardek,  of  what  meant  most 
to  her.  On  this  night,  as\she  lay  awake,  she  reveled  in 
the  despairs  of  loneliness. 

At  about  that  time  Blynn  had  appeared  and  had  sat- 
isfied her  need.  To  him  she  had  unburdened,  and 
had  come  away  pure  and  heightened  as  after  con- 
fession. 

All  this  had  made  her  self-conscious  in  her  visits  to 
Bardek.  He  had  remarked  the  change  in  her,  and 
talked  about  it,  as  was  his  way ;  which  made  her,  some- 
how, ashamed.  When  her  cheeks  flamed  under  his  per- 
sistent candor,  he  would  call  to  his  wife  in  great  de- 
light. In  some  Hungarian  dialect  he  would  invite  her 
to  look  at  the  bud  bursting;  the  little,  green  leaves 
unfolding ;  the  fresh,  sweet  petals  stretching  themselves. 
There  never  was  any  doubt  as  to  his  meaning. 

After  that  when  Gorgas  parted  the  elder  branches 
and  looked  into  his  bower  she  came  with  the  face  of  a 
child-woman,  full  of  subtle  new  dignity,  an  unstudied 


LIBERTE,  EGALITE,  FRATERNITE        83 

preoccupation,  as  if  the  mind  within  were  very,  very 
busy  on  its  great  affairs. 

And  guilt  seized  her,  without  giving  a  single  reason. 
"  It  is  wrong !  "  sang  a  humming  in  her  ears.  "  What 
is  wrong?"  she  would  ask  herself  wildly.  "It  is 
wrong !  It  is  wrong !  "  the  voices  would  cry ;  and  no 
one  could  tell  her  what  was  wrong. 

With  Blynn  beside  her  she  looked  steadily  at  the 
blanched  circle  left  by  the  tent. 

"  Well ! "  she  gave  a  deep,  healthy  exhalation,  and 
stepped  back  into  the  narrow  path.  "  I'm  both  sorry 
and  glad.  I  don't  know  why  I  should  be  glad;  but  I 
am.  It  is  all  mixed  —  m-mixed  u-up."  Her  lips 
quivered  though  her  eyes  smiled  gamely.  "  I  don't 
know  whether  I  am  going  to  cry  or  laugh." 

"  Shall  I  toss  a  coin?  "  Blynn  inquired. 

"  Chuck  "  was  examining  the  "  hunky  "  and  speculat- 
ing upon  moving  in  as  soon  as  he  could  wheedle  a  tent 
out  of  his  father.  Blynn  and  Gorgas  stood  close 
together  facing  each  other  in  the  path.  Her  eyes 
searched  his  steadily  until  they  slowly  brimmed  and 
shut  out  all  view. 

"  I  guess  I'm  mo-mostly  g-glad ! "  she  put  out  her 
hands  toward  him  and  lightly  touched  his  sleeve. 

"  If  you  cry  now,"  whispered  the  man,  "  you'll  splash 
me  awfully.  Let's  wait  till  we  have  more  room." 

That  decided  the  matter.  It  was  a  hearty  burst  of 
girlish  laughter  which  cleared  the  air  like  the  proverbial 
thunder.  All  the  way  home  they  sang  and  danced  and 
played  "  tag  "  and  raced. 


84  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"When  will  Bardek  be  back?"  Blynn  asked  before 
he  bade  the  children  goodbj. 

"  Perhaps  next  week ;  perhaps  next  month,"  Gorgas 
conjectured.  "  Once  he  stayed  away  two  months.  Oh, 
he'll  be  along  again  soon.  A  tout  a  I'heure,  m'sieu'." 
She  stepped  gaily  up  the  walk  toward  her  own  door. 
"  Auf  wiedersehen  und  -lioren  und  -sprechen.  Un- 
til I  see  you  and  hear  you  and  speak  you  again !  " 

Yet  the  month  passed  away,  and  another  month  and 
many  months,  but  Cresheim  Valley  saw  no  trace  of 
Bardek. 

Along  in  November  the  mails  brought  a  carefully 
wrapped  package  containing  eighty-two  dollars  and  six 
cents.  A  note  in  French  said  simply: 

"  It  was  a  robber  who  bought  your  plate,  but  I  will 
not  ask  too  much  for  the  art  which  I  stole  from  Varri. 
I  do  penance  by  taking  so  little.  The  miser !  For  my 
silver  and  copper  I  charge  you  a  trifle  —  which  I  have 
taken  out.  What  is  here  is  yours  —  well  earned, 
golden  child. 

"  Until  we  meet  and  talk  again, 

"  BAEDEK." 

After  a  conference  with  Mr.  Blynn,  Gorgas  for- 
warded the  package  anonymously  to  the  treasurer  of 
the  Children's  Aid  Society. 

"  It  is  an  offering  to  propitiate  the  theft  from  G'sepp' 
G'ovan'  Varri,"  said  Blynn ;  "  let  us  hope  it  will  count 
as  a  mass  for  the  peace  of  Varri's  penurious  soul." 


VII 

A    "  FRENCH    DAY  "    AT    NIGHT 

MRS.  LEVERING  did  not  mean  to  neglect  her 
children ;  but  her  life  was  busy  with  the  run- 
ning of  a  big  household,  and  with  the  claims 
of  neighbors,  the  church,  and  charitable  organizations. 
In  her  home  life  she  was  delightfully  lax  and  unsystem- 
atic ;  but  it  was  liberty  for  all,  not  a  bad  arrangement 
for  domestic  happiness,  when  it  works. 

Her  two  children  had  come  along  without  making 
much  demand  upon  her.  If  they  had  been  frail  or 
sickly  she  would  have  been  the  promptest  of  nurses,  and 
perhaps  she  would  have  learned  more  about  them ;  but 
they  grew  along  sturdily  without  so  much  as  a  single 
call  for  help.  As  a  result  they  instinctively  repelled 
coddling.  There  were  no  effusive  greetings  between 
mother  and  daughter,  no  kissings  at  night  time,  and 
only  the  most  casual  peck  at  lengthy  partings.  It  was 
a  very  sensible  and  practical  environment ;  and,  on  the 
whole,  satisfactory  to  the  Levering  family. 

Mrs.  Levering  treated  her  daughters  as  if  they  were 
her  own  age.  There  was  no  "  baby-talk  "  at  any  stage 
of  their  upbringing.  Nearly  everything  was  discussed 
openly,  but  that  did  not  mean  that  the  children  had  a 
vote  in  everything.  Unconventional  as  the  mother  wasr 

85 


86  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

in  most  things,  she  threw  about  the  children  a  protective 
ring  of  unwritten  rules,  over  which  there  was  no  debate 

—  almost  the  same  code  that  her  own  mother  had  used. 
Gorgas  could  fight  against  going  to  school  and  win. 
School  was  an  expense,  anyway ;  and  Gorgas  seemed  to 
be  doing  very  well  by  herself  with  such  help  as  the 
mother  fancied  Keyser  was  giving  her ;  and  many  chil- 
dren managed  pretty  well  with  a  tutor  or  two.     But 
acquaintances,  especially  male,  were  scrutinized  and  lim- 
ited ;  late  night  prowlings  were  forbidden ;  there  was  no 
latch-key  for  any  save  the  master-of-the-house  —  who 
never  went  out !  —  and  all  letters,  outgoing  and  incom- 
ing, must  pass  inspection. 

So,  you  see,  Mrs.  Levering  had  no  tingle  of  conscience 
concerning  her  children ;  on  the  contrary,  she  had  many 
exalted  moments  at  the  thought  of  all  her  prohibitory 
care  over  them. 

Allen  Blynn  was  O.  K.'d  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Everyone  knew  all  about  him.  He  was  an  honor  man 
at  college ;  his  mother  was  of  "  good  people,"  descend- 
ants of  somebody  or  other;  and  he  was  of  the  faculty 
of  the  University.  Of  course,  his  manners  were  right 

—  he  used  a  fork  properly ;  he  was  charmingly  consid- 
erate of  ladies ;  children  liked  him ;  and  he  had  a  good, 
honest  face;  but  the  other  qualifications,  the  college 
honors   and   the  university   degrees   really   made  him 
"  moral,"  and  therefore  a  free  and  unrestricted  com- 
panion   of   her   two    girls.     Besides,    the   mother   was 
thrifty  enough  to  see  the  advantage  of  securing  so  ex- 
cellent and  so  inexpensive  a  tutor  for  Gorgas. 


A  "FRENCH  DAY"  AT  NIGHT  87 

On  the  days  when  he  and  Gorgas  studied  together  it 
grew  to  be  the  custom  for  the  tutor  to  stay  on  for  the 
informal  family  dinner,  to  get  his  "  pay,"  as  he  had 
bargained,  of  good  food  and  good  company.  They 
were  jolly  affairs,  full  of  gay  chatter  and  serious  dis- 
cussion of  men  and  things.  Blynn  radiated  on  these 
occasions,  for  the  dinner  was  his  natural  habitat.  On 
the  tennis-courts  he  was  an  indifferent  actor ;  but  when- 
ever the  game  was  speech,  he  scored  masterfully. 

Guests  seemed  to  drop  in  fortuitously  on  these  eve- 
nings, while  the  dinner  grew  imperceptibly  more  elab- 
orate. With  a  daughter  aged  twenty-two,  Mrs.  Lever- 
ing's  instincts  told  her  when  to  entertain  young  people, 
and  Miss  Keyser  Levering  was  a  more  modern  mental 
replica  of  her  mother.  Edwin  Morris,  the  university 
tennis  champion,  still  in  his  late  'teens,  was  a  frequent 
visitor,  as  were  "  Sam  "  Davis,  the  "  lawman  " ;  Keyser's 
chums,  Mary  Weston  and  Betty  Sommers;  Diccon,  a 
newspaper-man,  and  a  collegian  of  Blynn's  time;  and 
Leopold,  a  distinguished-looking  young  English  Jew,  of 
the  science  department  of  the  University. 

Others  came  and  went,  but  these  gradually  drifted 
together  to  form  the  core  of  a  little  social  group. 

On  these  occasions  Gorgas  seemed  to  disappear.  She 
shrank  visibly  into  the  role  of  little  girl  invited  to  look 
on.  Her  animated  and  accomplished  sister  overpow- 
ered her  and  made  her  a  speechless  dependent.  All  the 
gaucheries  of  childhood  came  out  to  daunt  her.  She 
stumbled  against  things,  spilled  her  salt,  and  walked 
about  with  ox-like  grace.  One  mild,  reproving  look 


88  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

from  her  sister  would  make  her  trebly  clumsy  for  the 
evening. 

Blynn  tried  often  to  bring  her  out,  but  it  only  in- 
creased her  seeming  stupidity.  After  all,  she  was  a 
child,  he  reminded  himself,  but  not  without  puzzled 
memories  of  the  strange  age  she  could  put  on  when  they 
were  alone  together. 

Keyser,  whom  Blynn  had  rechristened  "  Kate," —  a 
name  which  everyone  took  up  —  was  so  charmingly  at 
ease  that  in  spite  of  his  desire  to  befriend  the  little 
sister,  he  found  his  talk  gravitating  toward  the  elder. 

And  Gorgas  was  really  content  to  look  on,  to  listen 
and,  above  all,  to  remain  completely  unnoticed.  She 
did  not  always  succeed,  much  to  her  public  confusion. 
With  Morris,  the  tennis  boy,  she  was  more  comfortable, 
save  when  he  tried  to  draw  her  out  into  the  circle. 
This  he  discovered  early  he  must  not  do;  so  he  con- 
trived to  sit  beside  her  and  tell  her  about  his  college 
pranks  in  undertones.  When  he  discovered  that  she 
played  tennis  and  had  won  the  Junior  cup,  he  took  her 
in  charge  forthwith ;  and  on  other  days  met  her  on  the 
courts  and  gave  her  an  exceptional  practice.  Their 
"  doubles  "  combination  soon  grew  to  be  practically  un- 
beatable. 

One  evening  the  conversation  drifted  to  the  culture- 
war  over  Latin  and  Greek.  Blynn  was  trying  to  show 
how  the  absorption  in  these  studies,  which  rarely  got 
beyond  the  veriest  elements,  was  keeping  our  generation 
from  the  marvelous  literatures  of  Europe.  Centuries 
from  now,  he  claimed,  the  modern  languages  would  be 


A  "  FRENCH  DAY  "  AT  NIGHT  89 

looked  upon  as  even  more  classical  than  the  ancients. 

"  I  am  handicapped  in  my  work,"  he  admitted,  "  be- 
cause I  do  not  know  Danish,  Swedish,  Spanish,  Italian, 
German,  and  French ;  I  mean,  really  know  them.  A 
school  child  in  any  country  of  Europe  would  laugh  at 
my  attempts  to  speak  or  read  the  languages.  No  one 
ever  hinted  to  me  what  were  the  real  tools  of  scholar- 
ship." 

Leopold  told  of  his  classical  training  under  tutors 
in  England.  He  had  begun  to  read  Latin  at  eight, 
added  Greek  at  nine,  and  he  could  not  remember  when 
he  was  unable  to  understand  French  and  German. 

"  America  is  giving  up  foreign  languages,"  Leopold 
summed  up.  "  The  students  will  not  put  the  time  on 
them." 

"  But  I  know  they  will,"  Blynn  returned  firmly,  "  if 
the  thing  is  taught  reasonably.  You  began  at  eight 
and  nine,  Leopold ;  well,  that's  the  age  to  do  it." 

The  conversation  threatened  to  become  pedagogic 
and  heavy,  but  the  girls  were  interested,  too.  Mary 
Weston  told  of  some  phenomenal  pianists  who  had  been 
developed  in  just  that  way. 

"  The  teacher  told  me  she  took  them  young,  four  to 
five  years ;  visited  them  every  day.  There  was  no  hate- 
ful *  practice.'  '  Mar-y !  have  you  done  your  scales 
today?'  *  No-m.'  'Then  come  right  in  this  minute 
and  do  them ! '  I  can  hear  my  mother  calling  me  yet. 
Result :  *  Chapel  in  the  Mountains  '  with  the  left  hand 
over,"  she  illustrated  comically  on  the  table,  "  *  Dum, 
dum,  dum,  twinkle-innkle-ink ! '  That's  almost  my 


90  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

repertoire.  .  .  .  This  teacher  got  her  youngsters  over 
every  difficulty  without  a  single  growl.  Master  Stew- 
ardson  —  you  heard  him,  Kate," — everyone  had 
adopted  Blynn's  "  Kate  "— "  at  the  Willings'— he's 
one  of  them.  Wasn't  he  slick  ?  " 

Mary  drew  an  imaginary  bow  across  her  arm  and 
whined  the  opening  of  the  "  Spring  Song." 

"  Bravo !  "  applauded  Leopold,  "  that's  bully,  you 
know.  Sounds  just  like  a  violin  —  one  with  a  bad 
throat." 

"  I  thought  she  fingered  well,"  added  Davis. 

Diccon  insisted  that  he  heard  an  open  string.  He 
always  abominated  the  open  string. 

A  burst  of  imitators  overtook  the  table,  violins, 
flageolets,  bassoons,  bass-viols.  Morris  took  the  prize 
with  the  sextette  from  "  Lucia  "  as  done  by  Sousa  on  a 
half-dozen  interrupting  muted  trombones. 

"  All  of  which  proves,"  summed  up  Betty  Sommers, 
when  the  fun  had  died  down,  "  that  none  of  us  knows 
music." 

Davis,  the  law-man,  protested  —  he  had  been  a  growl- 
ing bass-viol :  "  Don't  say  that.  We  have  merely  cul- 
tivated virtuosity  at  the  expense  of — " 

"  Skill,"  "  Music,"  "  Everything,"  he  was  helped  out. 

"  At  the  expense  of  —  I  demand  the  floor,  Madam 
Chairman  —  at  the  expense  of  — " 

"  Our  neighbors,"  Gorgas  put  in  quietly. 

"  Good ! "  cried  Davis.  "  Amendment  accepted. 
Ah !  Somnolent  and  suspicious  Mount  Airy !  This 
night's  joy  will  be  chronicled  as  dissipation,  and  tongues 


A  "  FRENCH  DAY  "  AT  NIGHT  91 

will  wag.  Here's  to  our  neighbors,"  and  he  tossed  off  a 
handful  of  salted  almonds. 

"  We  don't  know  music,"  insisted  Blynn,  his  mind 
not  at  all  diverted  by  the  clamor ;  "  and  we  don't  know 
anything." 

"  I  arise  to  protest,"  Mary  Weston  appealed  to  Mrs. 
Levering.  "  This  male  professor  has  cast  aspersions 
upon  the  expensive  education  we  girls  have  achieved  via 
the  instruction  imparted  at  the  '  Misses  Warren's  Se- 
lect French  and  English  School  for  Young  Ladies.' ' 

Laughter  from  the  girls  showed  how  much  they  valued 
this  expensive  training. 

"  If  I  had  a  catalog  here,"  Mary  persisted,  "  I  could 
prove  to  you  how  thoroughly  well  we  were  brung  up. 
*  You  must  nevah  say,  "  raised,"  my  deah  young  lady,' ): 
Mary  was  in  full  swing  imitating  the  elder  Miss  War- 
ren. "  '  Beets  are  "  raised  " ;  turnips  and  cabbages 
are  "  raised " ;  young  ladies  are  "  reahed,"  ah ! 
"reahed"!5" 

"Kate"  joined  in  with  a  mock  quotation  from  the 
catalog.  Interruptions  were  frequent.  "  '  The  young 
ladies  of  this  school  are  taught  the  French  language 
according  to  the  natural  method.  Conversation  is  en- 
couraged. All  the  work  of  the  French  class  is  con- 
ducted entirely  in  the  French  language.  A  correct  ac- 
cent is  insisted  upon.' ' 

Imitation  of  the  French  teachers  followed,  along 
with  samples  of  the  kind  of  French  that  was  "  en- 
couraged." 

"  There's  my  proof,"  Btynn  went  on.     "  Everyone 


92  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

here  has  studied  French  for  one  or  more  years.  Some 
of  us  have  been  abroad  where  each  had  a  chance  to  test 
it  out.  Who  really  knows  any  French,  except  Leopold  ? 
I  don't  mean  ability  to  read.  Anybody  can  guess  what 
French  means;  but  can  anyone  here  really  talk  and 
think  in  French?  I  have  met  German  boys,  still  in 
school,  who  could  talk  with  me  in  English  and  could 
pass  me  many  times  in  French.  They  got  it  all  out 
of  their  schools.  In  other  words,  they  gave  their  time, 
the  most  precious  hours  of  their  lives,  and  got  some- 
thing lasting." 

The  conversation  broke  in  two.  The  upper  end  of 
the  table  were  agreeing  with  Blynn,  the  lower  end  were 
trying  with  much  laughter  to  carry  on  a  discussion  in 
French. 

"  Je  vous  aime,  je  vous  adore,  que  voulez-vous  en- 
core? "  Betty  remarked  to  Diccon.  "  It  means,  *  I  just 
dote  on  you,  Dicky-boy.' ' 

"  Je  ne  comprends  pas,"  replied  Diccon.  "  Score  a 
point  for  me.  It's  all  French,  every  bit  of  it  guaran- 
teed. Je  ne  comprends  pas.  '  I  don't  understand.'  I 
used  it  all  over  Paris.  '  I  don't  understand '  fits  any- 
where." 

"  J'ai  un  petit  frere,"  volunteered  Davis.  "  It  means, 
*  I  have  a  little  brother.'  I  haven't  any  little  brother, 
but  that's  French,  all  right." 

"  Adieu!     Adieu!     Adieu!  "  said  Kate. 

They  were  taking  turns.  Blynn  saw  a  chance  to  sur- 
prise them. 

"  Here !  children,"  he  rapped  on  the  table.     "  I  have 


A  "  FRENCH  DAY  "  AT  NIGHT  93 

a  game  for  you.  Each  of  us  will  show  off  his  French. 
Leopold  is  debarred;  he  is  French.  No!  We'll  let 
him  in.  ...  Let  me  see,"  he  glanced  hurriedly  about 
the  table.  "  We'll  take  partners,  each  talk  to  his 
vis-a-vis."  He  produced  his  watch.  "  I'll  make  it 
easy.  One  full  minute  speech  and  one  full  minute  reply. 
Time  out  for  all  pauses.  Repetitions  not  allowed. 
Get  ready.  Kate  and  Diccon  will  begin,  the  gentleman 
first." 

Gorgas  leaned  over  eager-eyed  to  watch  the  fun,  until 
swiftly  it  came  to  her  that  she  and  Leopold  would  be 
last.  Toward  Blynn  she  cast  a  terrified  appeal. 

While  the  first  two  were  blundering  joyfully  through 
their  minute  he  slipped  around  to  her  and  whispered. 

"  Please  carry  this  out  for  me !  If  you  say  the  word, 
I'll  have  them  excuse  you.  .  .  .  I'll  take  all  the  blame. 
It's  only  fun.  Please !  " 

"  All  right,"  she  nodded.  But  her  face,  for  a  hum- 
ming second,  lost  some  of  its  ruddy  tan. 

Their  ludicrous  book  sentences  encouraged  her,  and 
made  her  feel  suddenly  strong  and  unabashed.  Into 
her  mind  came  pictures  of  clear,  blue-sky  days  with 
Bardek  gesticulating  and  spouting  his  vivid  jargon. 

Davis  was  telling  about  his  brother.  "  I  have  a  little 
brother.  J'ai  un  petit  frere,"  he  announced  with  great 
eagerness,  and  stopped.  Betty  had  got  through  by 
cleverly  remembering  a  conjugation:  "I  drink,  you 
drink,  he  drinks,  she  drinks,  it  drinks,  we  drink,"  etc. 
Mary  claimed  foul  on  the  ground  that  conjugations 
didn't  make  sense;  but  her  own  contribution  was  a 


94  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

familiar  medley:  "  Monsieur,  bureau,  Lafayette,  encore, 
depot,  merci,  madame,  bon-bon."  Morris  tried  "  Alice 
in  Wonderland."  "  'Twas  brillig  and  the  slithey  toves 
did  gyre  and  gimble  on  the  wabe,"  but  was  caught ;  al- 
though he  insisted  that  it  was  as  much  French  as  any- 
thing. 

To  be  sure,  no  one  was  really  trying.  Betty,  no 
doubt,  could  have  blundered  along  tolerably  well,  and 
Davis  had  taken  part  in  a  French  play,  much  of  which 
he  probably  remembered.  The  game  was  a  frolic  and 
was  so  played,  until  Leopold  spoke. 

"  Ma  chere  amie,"  he  leaned  over  and  gazed  earnestly 
at  Gorgas.  He  was  a  dark,  grave  looking  man,  the 
type  of  scholar  Jew.  Everyone,  of  course,  could  follow 
his  carefully  chosen  phrases.  "  When  I  look  into  your 
eyes,"  he  said  slowly,  "  I  see  treasure  there ;  for  you 
have  that  which  the  world,  with  all  its  seeming  care  for 
franc  and  sou,  regards  ever  as  above  price.  First, 
you  have  youth,  with  the  future  all  to  spend ;  and  you 
have  faithfulness,  a  vast  store  —  I  see  it  in  your  steady 
brown  eyes;  and  you  have  beauty  born  of  these  two, 
youth  and  faithfulness.  And  besides,  while  you  speak 
seldom,  and  sit  serene  apart,  you  have  rare,  rare 
thoughts.  Would  that  I  could  share  them." 

It  seemed  almost  like  a  trick  to  play  upon  Gorgas, 
the  unschooled.  There  was  a  little  uneasiness.  Mrs. 
Levering  was  about  to  give  an  appropriate  excuse  when 
Gorgas  replied. 

Her  tones  were  deep  and  French  to  the  very  roots. 
Her  features  changed;  turns  and  twists  of  eye  and 


A  "  FRENCH  DAY  "  AT  NIGHT  95 

mouth,  which  she  had  caught  unwittingly  from  Bardek, 
swept  across  the  animated  young  face  and  gave  a  new 
charm  to  her  words.  Ah,  how  often  lately  had  Bardek 
made  much  that  same  speech  to  her!  And  how  often 
had  she  flamed  in  reply !  Tonight  she  was  swift  to  re- 
buke the  man  before  her,  first,  for  his  open  flattery  — 
Gorgas  was  quite  wrong,  here,  as  she  found  out  later ; 
Leopold  was  never  more  honest  —  and  secondly,  for  his 
attempt  to  make  a  public  jest  of  her.  Gorgas  could 
never  believe  that  she  was  good  to  look  at ;  always  she 
grew  flustered  at  sudden  praise,  suspecting  some  hidden 
irony. 

She  came  back  with  nervous,  rapid-fire  Gallic,  a  sud- 
den contrast  to  his  deliberate  language.  She  told  him 
that  he  should  not  have  said  that  sort  of  thing  to  her, 
especially  before  all  these  people.  It  may  be  true. 
She  would  not  deny  that  she  had  all  the  virtues,  but  her 
friends  were  those  who  did  not  gabble  smart  phrases 
about  her  eyes  and  her  ears  and  her  nose  as  if  they 
were  properties  for  sale.  Why  couldn't  he  have  talked 
of  impersonal  things  as  the  others  had?  Well!  He 
would  be  paid  back  in  kind.  Well!  She  would  look 
into  his  eyes,  and  what  does  she  see?  Sapristi!  Noth- 
ing; for  his  eyes  are  away.  They  are  busy  watching 
the  faces  of  girls  and  reporting  lies  about  them ! 

Leopold,  astonished  at  the  spirited  attack,  offered 
a  most  humble  apology,  and  protested  his  sincerity, 
keeping  steadily  to  the  French,  which  was  to  him  almost 
a  second  tongue.  She  tossed  him  aside  with  a  swift 
change  of  mood.  She  knew  that  it  was  all  fun;  but 


96  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

that  sort  of  personal  praise  always  made  her  unhappy. 

He  had  not  thought  she  would  understand,  he  offered 
in  excuse. 

That  did  not  help  his  case  a  bit,  she  returned  quickly, 
for  then  he  had  evidently  sought  deliberately  to  make 
her  a  laughing  stock.  "  Vous  voulez  rire,"  she  said, 
"  mais  je  n'aime  pas  qu'on  se  moque  de  moi!  " 

Their  parley  grew  less  warm.  He  forced  her  to 
laugh  by  pointing  out  the  gaping  crowd  of  elders.  He 
told  her  that  no  one  present  could  possibly  give  a  trans- 
lation of  their  conversation,  for  it  had  been  carried  on, 
not  in  the  studied  pace  suitable  for  foreigners,  but 
clipped  and  jammed  into  a  swift  colloquial  clatter. 

"  Look  at  Diccon,"  Leopold  went  on,  still  keeping 
away  from  English.  "  He  is  so  surprised,  his  mouth 
won't  come  shut  for  a  week.  And  Betty,  she — "  and 
so  on  until  nearly  everyone  in  the  company  was  tolled 
off. 

Sensation!  The  discovery  that  the  Prince  really 
wanted  Cinderella  after  all  was  nothing  in  comparison. 
Where  did  she  get  it?  Had  she  lived  abroad?  No. 
Had  she  gone  to  school?  No.  Then  she  must  have 
had  tutors.  Ah!  There  it  was.  Allen  Blynn,  by 
way  of  silly  books,  had  done  the  trick.  Marvelous ! 
Hearty  congratulations !  It  was  a  miracle  of  peda- 
gogy- 

Blynn  denied  everything;  but  they  put  it  down  to 

modesty.  Needless  to  say,  from  that  hour  Gorgas  was 
respected  by  the  elder  girls  and  was  brought  more  into 
their  circle.  And  from  that  hour,  too,  she  lost  the 


A  "  FRENCH  DAY  "  AT  NIGHT  97 

major  part  of  her  left-handedness  in  public.  She  began 
to  move  across  the  room  without  striking  chairs  or 
sliding  ashamed  into  secluded  corners. 

Same  of  the  same  dignity  of  bearing,  so  natural  in 
the  open  out-of-doors,  began  to  appear  within  doors : 
her  native  comedy  spirit,  the  gift  of  dramatic  carica- 
ture, gradually  unclosed,  to  the  great  surprise  of  her 
elder  sister. 


VIII 

"  MY    THEOEY   IS 

Allegretto 


Epi  J  J  i j  -P  ^  i  J-  Jw^tfj^^TO 


Mou  capitaiue,  . .  .  mon  colonel,  . . .  que  me  demandez  vous  ? 

BLYNN  visited  his  youngsters  or  had  them  on  his 
own  grounds  with  the  regularity  of  a  physician 
looking  up  his  patients.  Those  that  were  out 
of  reach  he  held  by  correspondence.  Yet  always  his 
visits  or  his  letters  seemed  the  most  casual  thing.  The 
youngsters  looked  for  him  because  it  meant  a  splendid 
sort  of  play,  something  organized  and  meaningful. 
When  children  play  alone  they  get  into  ruts  and  they 
waste  great  time  in  small  disputes ;  an  umpire  or  a  di- 
rector keeps  things  moving. 

About  this  time  Blynn  began  to  keep  a  card  index 
of  his  "  cases,"  recording  all  available  facts  about  char- 
acter, and  special  abilities;  and  in  addition,  data  to 
show  the  ground  they  had  covered,  with  notes  of  sug- 
gestive treatment. 

There  was  no  difficulty  over  any  of  the  cases  save 
that  of  Gorgas.  He  had  not  the  least  notion  what  to 
do  with  her.  On  many  counts  she  was  entirely  too 
wise  for  her  teacher.  He  knew  that  she  must  have  con- 

98 


"  MY  THEORY  IS  — "  99 

stant  practice  in  German,  French,  and  Italian,  or  she 
would  lose  much  of  her  previous  holdings ;  she  must  not 
neglect  her  work  in  copper;  she  should  have  other 
studies,  science,  history,  literature,  mathematics,  music ; 
and  she  should  have  opportunity  to  continue  the  de- 
velopment of  her  physical  self. 

A  forge  was  constructed  in  a  disused  stone  spring- 
house.  No  one  interfered  with  any  eccentric  device 
that  Blynn  suggested;  it  began  to  be  generally  con- 
ceded that  he  could  perform  miracles  with  children  — 
Gorgas'  French  and,  later,  the  discovery  of  her  knowl- 
edge of  German  and  Italian  caused  everyone  to  look 
upon  him  as  a  wizard  —  so  there  was  no  objection  to 
the  fitting-up  of  a  complete  coppersmith's  workshop  in 
the  old  spring-house. 

When  he  came  to  take  stock  of  her  mental  furnishings 
he  found  some  strange  wares.  Gardiner's  "  The 
Femine  "  he  had  laid  to  the  door  of  Bardek ;  but  of  all 
Bardek's  odd  learning,  "  The  Femine  "  was  not  a  part ; 
indeed,  he  would  have  scoffed  at  the  contents.  An  aunt, 
a  "  Gorgas,"  had  left  her  namesake  a  few  hundred 
dollars  a  year,  the  interest  of  which  was  to  be  spent  in 
books.  Ever  since  she  could  remember,  Gorgas  had 
been  permitted  to  spend  that  small  sum  as  she  should 
choose.  The  effect  of  the  responsibility  was  to  give 
her  a  keen  interest  in  the  book-reviews  of  such  maga- 
zines as  came  regularly  to  the  house.  And  with  the 
growth  of  the  private  collection,  there  came  also  a  fine 
love  for  books. 
Her  little  "  den "  was  across  the  hall  from  the 


100  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

library.  One  afternoon  Blynn  found  her  there  and 
spent  many  astonished  minutes  poring  over  her  treas- 
ures. 

"  You  have  read  all  this?  "  he  inquired  incredulously. 

She  gave  several  pleased  little  nods.  "  Nearly  all. 
Some  were  too  much  for  me.  I  shall  give  them  up  until 
I  grow  into  them.  I  get  only  a  few  every  quarter;  so 
it  grows  gradually,"  she  explained. 

"  Why,  some  of  this  is  material  I  ought  to  know  my- 
self —  and  don't ;  books  I've  promised  myself  to  read. 
.  .  .  How  did  you  get  to  know  there  were  such  things  ? 
Bardek,  again?  " 

Oh,  no!  The  advertisements  of  the  Atlantic 
Monthly;  the  book  chat  in  Harper's,  and  the  Nation; 
and  especially  the  remarks  of  wise  persons  —  like  Mr. 
Blynn !  —  who  have  no  idea  that  "  a  chiel's  among  ye 
takin*  notes."  There  was  really  a  note-book  with  pub- 
lishers' names  and  prices ;  one  had  to  buy  carefully  so 
as  to  get  the  best  for  the  money  (Pennsylvania-German 
thrift  cropping  out  here,  thought  Blynn). 

"  That  one,"  she  touched  a  volume,  "  he 's  too  much 
for  me.  Everybody  is  talking  about  him.  The  maga- 
zines are  full  of  it ;  and  you  and  Mr.  Leopold  are  always 
quoting.  That  made  me  buy.  I  got  good  binding,  too. 
Don't  you  just  love  fine  bindings?"  She  stroked  the 
leather  cover  gently.  "  But  I  suppose  I'll  have  to 
know  more  before  I  can  understand." 

Browning  was  the  big  man  in  those  days ;  he  was  re- 
ceiving his  belated  hero-worship  and,  as  usual,  it  was 
noisy  and  overdone. 


«  MY  THEORY  IS  — "  101 

Blynn  ran  the  pages  over  and  stopped  at  "  Andrea 
del  Sarto."  Then  he  read.  It  needed  only  a  touch  of 
explanation  here  and  there  to  set  the  pathetic  mono- 
logue and  make  clear  the  simple  story  of  this  great 
failure. 

The  poem  was  plain  enough  now,  she  said ;  and  it  was 
beautiful;  but  why  did  Andrea  leave  his  great  work, 
give  up  all  that  was  really  dear  in  life,  and  in  his  mid- 
dle days  suffer  poverty  and  disgrace,  all  for  that  worth- 
less Lucrezia? 

Why,  indeed!  Blynn  promised  to  show  her  repro- 
ductions of  Sarto's  paintings,  especially  the  fine  figure 
of  young  John  the  Baptist ;  then  she  might  understand ; 
for  Lucrezia  was  the  model  for  that  spiritual  face.  She 
must  have  had  qualities  to  inspire  a  picture  like  that. 
A  man  would  give  up  much  for  a  woman  who  called  him, 
even  —  this  is  the  puzzle  of  life  —  even  though  he  knew 
she  were  worthless. 

"  Do  you  suppose,"  she  asked,  "  that  in  the  first  years 
of  their  marriage  they  were  — "  She  wanted  to  say 
"  lovers,"  but  that's  a  hard  word  to  say  aloud  in  Eng- 
lish. Except  on  the  stage  or  in  novels,  we  avoid  direct 
reference  to  love.  We  seem  to  be  half  ashamed  of  it. 
"  Do  you  think,"  she  began  again,  "  they  really  — 
cared?  " 

"  I  should  think  so,"  he  guessed.  "  Most  folks  do, 
for  awhile.  We  can't  get  into  the  private  history  of 
families  ;  but  from  the  outside  it  seems  that  —  uh  — af- 
fection," he  was  also  shying  at  the  word,  "  soon  dies  out. 
It  rather  frightens  one  to  look  on  the  hundreds  of  in- 


102  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

different  or  possibly  discordant  couples  who,  no  doubt, 
were  one  time  violently  —  uh  —  enamored  of  each  other. 
It  doesn't  seem  possible  to  keep  the  thing  up !  " 

"  If  that's  true,  I'm  sorry,"  she  said  seriously. 

"  So  am  I." 

"Why  should  it  be  true?" 

"  I've  often  puzzled  over  it.     My  theory  is  — " 

She  laughed.  "  Do  you  know,  you  always  begin  that 
way  ?  '  My  theory  is.'  But  go  on,  I'm  interested. 
...  I  like  your  theories.  .  .  .  You  don't  care  if  I  say 
what  I  think ;  do  you?  " 

"  Oh,  dear,  no !  "  he  smiled.  "  I  was  only  thinking 
how  full  of  theories  I  am.  I  haven't  breathed  half  of 
them  aloud  yet.  ...  I  wouldn't  dare.  .  .  .  Well,  my 
theory  is  that  two  people  who  —  uh  — " 

"  Yes  ?  "  She  was  sitting  cross-legged  on  the  floor 
and  looking  steadily  up  at  him. 

He  looked  down  at  her  a  second  or  two,  studying 
her  frank  eyes. 

"  Would  you  mind  sitting  on  a  chair  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Mais,  owi,"  yet  she  did  not  stir.  "  But  I  am  quite 
comfy  here,  mon  pere." 

"  Uh!  "  he  grinned.     "  Don't  call  me  '  father.'  " 

"  You  are  ten  years  older,"  she  contended,  "  and  — " 

"  How  did  you  discover  that  ?  " 

« I  asked  Edwin." 

"Edwin?" 

"  Edwin  Morris." 

"  Oh,  your  tennis  chum.     How  old  is  he?  " 

"  Eighteen ;  only  five  years  older  than  I." 


"  MY  THEORY  IS  — "  103 

"  H'm ! "  he  looked  at  her  suspiciously ;  but  she 
seemed  quite  guiltless. 

"  Why  mustn't  I  sit  on  the  floor,  mon  p  —  mon  due, 
mon  prince?  " 

She  hummed  the  air  of  "  La  Tour,  Prends  Garde," 
that  old  song  which  the  French  children  sing  and  act  so 
prettily  in  the  summer  evenings,  reminding  us  of  our 
own  "  London  Bridge  is  Falling  Down."  Gorgas 
touched  the  words  softly, 

"  Mon  due,  mon  prince ! 
Mon  due,  mon  prince! 
Je  viens  me  plaindre  a  vous." 

"  Duke  and  prince?  "  he  shook  his  head.  "  I'm  too 
American  for  that." 

Without  further  word  she  sang  the  next  stanza, 

"  Mon  capitaine, 
Mon  colonel! 
Que  me  demandez-vous  ?  " 

"  Ah,  that's  better,"  Blynn  smiled. 

"  And  why,  mon  capitaine,"  she  smiled  back,  "  may 
I  not  sit  on  the  floor?  " 

"Well,  I'll  tell  you,"  he  explained.  "It's  — legs. 
I've  discovered  something  about  you."  He  spoke  with 
exaggerated  jocularity.  "When  I  see  your  under- 
pinnings, I  know  I  am  talking  to  a  child,  aged  thirteen, 
who  looks  upon  me  as  a  grandfather;  but  when  you 
squat  on  the  floor  and  look  up  at  me  like  a  little 
coquette  " —  his  tone  was  that  of  pure  banter  — "  I  get 


104  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  craziest  notion  possible  into  my  head,  that  you  have 
grown  up  and  —  that  you  are  sitting  there  quietly 
laughing  at  all  my  tedious  explanation,  and  well  —  you 
know,  you  fooled  me  completely  that  day  on  the  tennis 
courts.  I  could  have  sworn  you  were  at  least  twenty- 
two." 

"  Why  do  you  need  —  to  treat  me  —  differently  ?  " 

Her  eyes  rested  on  him  now  with  quiet  gravity. 
They  looked  into  him  and  seemed  to  explore  his  very 
mind.  This  child  had  been  schooled  all  her  life  to  mask 
her  feelings  until  few  suspected  she  was  capable  of  any. 
In  this  confident  hour  she  unmasked  and  let  him  see 
without  shame  that  he  was  her  capitaine,  under  whom 
she  would  serve  right  loyally.  Youth  and  faithful- 
ness! Blynn  could  see  all  that,  too,  in  her  eyes;  and 
perhaps  something  else,  which  disturbed  him  and  caused 
him  to  come  to  instant  decision. 

"  Do  you  know,  young  lady,"  he  broke  the  spell  of 
the  silence  abruptly,  "  that  in  October  you  are  going  to 
the  Misses  Warren's  Select  French  and  English  School 
for  Young  Ladies  ?  " 

"  No !  "  she  stood  up.  "  I  won't  go.  Who  said  I 
must  go?  That  hateful  place?  Why,  everybody 
makes  fun  of  it.  It  —  it  would  be  torture.  I  won't 
go !  Please,  Mr.  Blynn,  don't  let  them  send  me  there." 

"  But  you  must  go  somewhere,"  he  soothed.  "  I've 
been  inquiring.  They've  made  a  number  of  changes 
since  the  death  of  the  elder  sister.  It's  really  quite  a 
decent  place  now.  What  you  need  is  not  book  educa- 
tion, but  social  education." 


"  MY  THEORY  IS  — "  105 

"What!" 

"  I  put  that  badly.  I  mean  you  should  mix  more 
with  your  own  generation.  There  are  girls  who  — " 

"  Girls !  I  don't  want  to  know  any.  Most  of  them 
are  just  simpletons,  smirking  at  boys.  Boys!  boys! 
boys !  That's  their  whole  talk.  They  aren't  interested 
in  books  or  anything.  I  tell  you,  I  couldn't  stand  being 
all  day  with  girls.  I  couldn't  breathe.  I  — " 

"  Now,  steady,"  he  calmed  her.  "  I  won't  make  you 
do  anything  you  don't  want  to  do.  That's  a  bargain ; 
isn't  it?  No  Warren  business,  if  you  don't  like  it. 
Remember,  you're  going  to  do  as  you  like." 

"  Yes,"  she  said  more  calmly ;  but  all  the  rebellion  in 
her  was  stirring. 

"  To  tell  you  the  truth,  I  haven't  worked  out  the 
plan  yet.  The  Warren  school  is  —  well,  I'm  thinking 
about  it.  I've  been  looking  into  the  School  of  Applied 
Arts,  too." 

"  That's  more  like  it,"  she  was  blinking  hard. 

"  You  see,"  he  showed  her  his  perplexity.  "  You 
and  I  aren't  getting  anywhere.  We  just  sit  around  and 
talk  and  talk  —  at  least,  I  do  — " 

"  But  that's  the  joy  of  it,"  she  was  astonished  at 
his  sudden  dullness.  "  Don't  you  like  our  —  talks?  " 

"  Bless  my  soul,  yes !  They're  great !  You  bring  me 
out;  make  me  think  of  things  I  didn't  know  I  knew. 
Enjoy  it?  Jerusalem!  But  your  mother  thinks  I  am 
teaching  you  things  — " 

"  Why,  you  are,"  her  eyes  grew  wide.  "  Every  day 
I  learn  lots  from  you.  I  can't  give  you  up,  Mr.  Blynn. 


106  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Why,  we  have  the  most  beautiful  pow-wows.  Nobody 
else  really  talks  to  me.  Look,"  she  picked  up  the 
Browning,  "  you  have  given  me  Andrea  today ;  I  never 
could  have  gotten  it  myself.  And  I'm  just  nervous 
thinking  of  more  you  will  give  me.  Don't  —  don't  — 
send  me  off,  just  when  we  were — .  It's  mean!"  she 
quavered,  stamping  her  foot  in  vexation,  for  she  had 
prided  herself  on  not  being  a  weeping  person,  and 
lately  the  tears  were  swelling  on  the  flimsiest  provoca- 
tion. 

But  he  was  firm  about  regular  school  and  took  pains 
to  make  his  reasons  clear  to  her.  His  scheme  for  her 
—  which  gradually  began  to  form  as  he  talked  —  was 
special  hours  at  Miss  Warren's  in  German  and  French. 
They  had  a  new  Swiss  teacher  there  who  had  a  splendid 
bi-lingual  training.  She  would  also  get  music,  mathe- 
matics and  Latin.  Once  or  twice  a  week  she  would 
take  the  metal  classes  in  the  School  of  Applied  Arts. 
The  Italian  she  would  have  to  keep  up  by  reading,  for 
awhile  at  least. 

"But  English  literature?"  she  protested.  "Aren't 
you  going  to  keep  on  with  your  readings  ?  Why,  we've 
hardly  begun ! " 

"  Perhaps,"  he  held  out.  "  Some  of  it  I  will  surely 
do ;  perhaps  I'll  arrange  a  little  class  with  your  sister 
and  Betty  Sommers." 

"  That  will  not  be  so  nice,"  she  admitted.  "  But," 
with  seeming  understanding  of  the  expression  that 
swept  across  his  face,  "  if  you  think  it  best,  mon  capi- 
talne,  I'll  give  them  a  share." 


"MY  THEORY  IS—"  107 

Youth  and  faithfulness  shone  in  her  eyes  again ;  and 
the  frankness  of  childhood. 

He  collected  his  belongings,  borrowed  a  book  from 
her  shelf  and  prepared  to  go. 

"  There ! "  she  said.  "  I  knew  we  had  forgotten 
something.  That  horrid  school  thing  hopped  in  be- 
tween and  spoiled  it  all."  She  held  the  Browning  open 
to  "  Andrea  del  Sarto."  "  You  were  telling  me  your 
theory  about  married  people,  and  why  they  don't  — 
keep  on  —  keep  on  — " 

"  Oh,  yes,"  he  helped.  "  Well,  my  theory  is  a  very 
simple  one.  There  is  no  patent  on  it,  but  no  one  seems 
to  want  to  use  it."  He  knitted  his  brows  and  looked 
afar  off.  "  I  think  young  people  ought  to  prepare 
ahead  of  time  for  all  that's  to  follow.  They  get  lost 
in  the  beginnings  —  for  there  are  beginnings,  and  there 
are  middles  and  ends,  each  is  different.  They  ought  to 
prepare  themselves  to  go  on  from  one  stage  of  affec- 
tion into  another,  without  surprise  or  suspicion  of  each 
other.  And  better,  they  should  study  all  the  little 
paths  that  tend  to  take  them  apart.  Therefore,  they 
should  cultivate  many  of  the  same  interests,  insist  upon 
having  many  associations  together,  and  refuse  to  let  a 
separate  set  of  occupations  absorb  them  too  much  — 
like  housekeeping  or  whist  playing  for  the  woman,  and 
selling  cheeses,  let  us  say,  for  the  man.  Memory  is  the 
thing  that  binds  one's  life  together;  married  people 
should  see  to  it  that  they  have  many,  many  beautiful 
memories  in  common.  There !  that's  a  long  speech ;  and 
it's  my  theory.  There  must  be  a  flaw  in  it  somewhere, 


108  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

or  more  folks  would  have  adopted  it.  I  have  faith  in 
it  —  I  have  faith,  you  notice,  in  all  my  theories.  One 
should.  If  ever  I  have  the  chance  to  try  it  out,  I'll  do 
my  best  to  make  it  work." 

"  It  will  work,"  she  said  simply. 

"  That's  encouraging,  now,"  he  laughed.  "  What 
makes  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  My  theory  is  that  the  woman  is  always  willing  to 
have  memories,  the  kind  you  speak  of.  It  is  the  man 
who  flies  off  to  his  own  affairs  and  leaves  her  to  just 
dig  along." 

"  Ah !  Amazonian,"  he  cried.  "  That's  out  of  Gar- 
diner!" 

"  No,"  quietly.  "  I  have  been  watching  my  neigh- 
bors, that's  all.  Men  are  awfully  excited  about  men- 
things.  I  don't  blame  them.  They  do  have  lots  of 
fun,  boys  and  men.  .  .  .  But  you  will  make  it  work,  all 
right." 

"Why?" 

"  Well,"  she  thought,  "  you  will  try ;  and  then  you 
aren't  at  all  interested  in  yourself  —  No !  you  aren't  — 
You    are    always    thinking    of    somebody    else.     I've 
watched  you — " 

"  Oh!  "  he  cried,  "  you'll  make  me  self-conscious." 

"  Often,  I've  watched  you.  I  notice  that  your  eye 
is  always  looking  to  see  what  other  persons  need.  You 
get  chairs  before  other  men  notice  they  are  wanted,  and 
you  open  doors,  and  pass  things  before  they're  asked 
for,  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  .  .  .  And,  you  under- 
stand — " 


«  MY  THEORY  IS  — "  109 

"Understand?" 

"  Yes ;  you  understand.  ,  .  .  you  understand  —  me, 
for  instance." 

They  looked  at  each  other  a  quiet  second  or  two. 

"  I  wonder  if  I  do,"  he  said,  trying  to  smile  like  a 
grandfather. 

They  walked  across  the  hall  into  the  library. 

"  Oh,  you  know  all  about  little  me,"  she  laughed,  and 
shook  her  head  as  if  it  were  a  doleful  burden. 


IX 

"  BONG-JOUE  " 

THE  winter  was  spent  for  Gorgas  pretty  much 
as  Blynn  had  planned.  She  was  entered  as  a 
pupil  in  the  Misses  Warren  Select  French  and 
English  School  for  Young  Ladies;  but  the  desertion 
from  freedom  was  not  made  easily ;  nor  was  it  ever  en- 
tirely successful.  Gorgas  was  the  vagabond  type.  In 
literature  Vagabondia  has  its  charming  unconventional 
men,  but  seldom  if  ever  has  the  female  of  this  species 
been  put  forward  without  shocking  sensitive  souls.  The 
unconventional  woman  is  —  well,  no  better  than  she 
should  be.  Somehow  the  world  has  worshipped  its  men 
when  they  step  forth  from  its  fetters  of  use  and  wont, 
but  it  looks  terribly  askance  at  women  of  equal  daring. 
On  the  morning  of  the  opening  of  school  Gorgas  rode 
solemnly  on  Gyp,  without  even  the  "  shining  morning 
face "  of  Shakespeare's  famous  reluctant  schoolboy. 
She  was  full  of  forebodings  of  coming  disaster.  Pro- 
fessor Blynn,  her  capitaine,  had  said,  go ;  that  was  the 
sole  impelling  force.  She  knew  that  she  could  not  turn 
back  without  distressing  him;  he  it  was  who  had  taken 
the  rebellious  untamed  forces  of  her  little  life  and  had 
bound  them  both  with  and  against  her  will.  It  was  ter- 
rible, this  bowing  to  the  decisions  of  another;  terrible 

110 


"  BONG- JOUR  "  111 

and  unutterably  satisfying !  She  pondered  on  this  con- 
tradictory fact  as  she  let  Gyp  trot  forward;  upon  the 
conflicting  desires  that  found  reasonable  lodgment  in 
her  mind :  the  desire  to  turn  Gyp's  head  right  about  for 
a  canter  toward  Bardek  and  Cresheim  Valley,  and  the 
greater  wish  to  obey  the  will  of  another,  to  plod  straight 
forward  and  suffer  the  pangs  of  a  strange  schooldom. 
Her  conscience  had  a  fine  glow  of  satisfaction  with  each 
step  toward  the  disagreeable  adventure. 

Miss  Warren  saw  her  from  the  window. 

"  Surely  that  is  not  one  of  our  new  girls?  "  she  ex- 
claimed to  the  secretary. 

Both  drew  aside  the  heavy  lace  curtains,  discreetly 
keeping  themselves  at  a  polite  distance  in  the  shadows. 

"  It  is  Gorgas  Levering,"  the  secretary  replied. 

"  But  she  is  riding  astride !  "  Miss  Warren  looked 
helplessly  about.  "  Like  a  man ! "  she  added. 
"  Mercy !  Do  go  out  and  tell  her  — " 

But  Gorgas  cut  that  command  short  by  dismounting 
—  like  a  man.  She  was  leading  Gyp  toward  the 
stables,  one  arm  over  the  horse's  mane,  her  head  erect, 
her  eyes  focussed  far  away.  At  that  moment  she  was 
enjoying  a  childlike  delight  in  successful  martyrdom. 
As  she  passed  around  the  school  —  really  a  fine  old 
Colonial  mansion  —  she  came  face  to  face  with  Miss 
Warren  framed  in  a  massive  side  door. 

"You  are  Miss  Gorgas  Levering,  I  presume?" 
Miss  Warren  made  the  statement  with  disarming 
graciousness. 

"  Miss  Warren !  "  Gorgas  ej  aculated. 


112  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

The  child  was  startled  by  the  apparition,  conjuring 
up  the  photograph  on  Keyser's  dressing-table,  that  now 
spoke  in  the  flesh,  like  an  ancient  figure  in  history  sud- 
denly come  to  life ;  and  her  spirits  oozed.  The  regality 
of  this  distinguished-looking  woman  struck  at  her  and 
took  away  her  sense  of  equality.  In  the  presence  of 
Miss  Warren  one  had  always  to  struggle  against  an 
overwhelming  feeling  of  personal  inferiority. 

"  I  am  so  glad  you  have  come  early,"  Miss  Warren 
ignored  the  exclamation.  "  Perhaps  you  would  like  to 
come  in  and  freshen  yourself  after  your  ride." 

Miss  Warren's  attire  was  spotless.  Without  a  fur- 
ther word  Gorgas  realized  that  there  was  something 
vulgar  and  unclean  in  riding  a  horse.  She  became 
conscious  of  her  dusty  appearance  and  of  Gyp's  warm, 
sweaty  body. 

"  Home,  Gyp,"  she  said,  and  turned  his  head  about 
and  patted  him  smartly  on  the  flank.  Gyp  trotted  off 
alone. 

Miss  Warren  took  in  the  unconventional  attire. 

"  You  are  wearing  —  uh  —  bloomers ;  are  you  not?  " 
she  asked  in  a  non-committal  tone. 

Then  Gorgas  answered  in  a  phrase  she  had  never 
before  used  in  speaking  to  her  elders.  It  was  the  reply 
of  servants  and  underlings ;  something  she  knew  should 
not  be  said,  but  it  came  unbidden  to  her  lips. 

"Yes,  ma'am,1*  she  said. 

Instantly  she  was  aware  of  having  surrendered  her 
will  completely  to  the  overpowering  superiority  of  the 
woman  before  her.  Her  face  flamed ;  she  would  have 


"  BONG-JOUR  "  113 

given  all  she  possessed  to  have  recalled  the  expression ; 
but  it  was  out,  and  she  was  condemned.  From  afar 
she  heard  the  quiet  explanation  from  Miss  Warren  that 
young  ladies  should  not  say  "  yes,  ma'am  " ;  they  should 
say,  "  Yes,  Miss  Warren."  All  of  which  she  knew  by 
instinct,  yet  she  could  offer  no  explanation.  She  was 
suffused  with  shame. 

"  It  is  too  late  to  ask  you  to  go  home  and  change," 
Miss  Warren  spoke  kindly  as  she  ushered  Gorgas  into 
the  house  and  showed  her  the  way  to  the  water-taps. 
"  Fortunately  we  have  a  few  proper  skirts  in  the  lockers 
that  you  may  wear  over  your  —  uh  —  riding  costume. 
While  you  are  getting  refreshed  I  will  have  Miss  Lewis 
find  one  for  you." 

Meekly  Gorgas  let  herself  be  decked  in  a  faded  blue 
serge  skirt,  which  bulged  uncomfortably  and  succeeded 
in  taking  out  of  her  the  remaining  grains  of  spirit.  If 
she  had  entertained  any  thought  of  walking  through  the 
spacious  doorway  and  bolting  for  Gyp  and  freedom, 
that  inharmonious  skirt  tethered  her  to  the  spot  like  a 
chain  anchor. 

She  sat  on  a  bench  under  a  window  in  the  wide  cor- 
ridor. A  teacher  or  two  came  in. 

'*  Bon  jour!  "  they  greeted  Miss  Warren,  who  bon- 
joured  them  in  return.  "Old  Bong-joor,"  Gorgas  re- 
membered, was  one  of  the  private  names  for  Miss  War- 
ren among  the  alumnae.  Other  French  phrases,  mainly 
about  the  weather,  were  passed  back  and  forward. 
Gorgas  recognized  them  instantly  as  by-words  among 
the  Warren  graduates,  and  she  knew  that  they  were  not 


114-  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

quite  French.  At  least  it  was  not  Bardek's  way  of 
greeting.  That  same  type  of  mystic  language  was 
leveled  at  the  first  few  early  pupils.  They  replied 
in  kind,  and  seemed  to  know  what  was  expected  of 
them. 

"Bon  jour,  Harriet." 

"  Bon  jour,  Ma-de-moi-selle  Warren." 

"  Tu  est  arrive  de  bonne  heure." 

"Oui,  Ma-de-moi-selle  Warren." 

"  C'est  bon,  Harriet." 

"Oui,  Ma-de-moi-selle  Warren." 

There  was  something  comic  in  the  picture  presented. 
The  little  girls  stood  at  rigid  attention  and  recited  their 
trite  phrases,  keeping  diplomatically  to  the  plain  oui 
or  non,  and  so  added  to  the  glory  of  "  The  Misses  War- 
ren's French  and  English  School  for  Young  Ladies." 
Here  was  the  echo  far  off  in  America  of  a  one-time 
supremacy  of  French  as  the  language  of  the  upper 
classes  of  Europe.  Tag-rags  of  the  language  lingered 
for  awhile  in  novels,  until  it  finally  died  out  and  was 
deposited  in  the  back  pages  of  the  old  Webster  dic- 
tionary, where  the  proletariat  may  still  find  the  mean- 
ing of  such  recondite  phrases  as  "  entre  nous"  and  "  on 
dit." 

"  I  wish  you  to  know  one  of  our  new  girls,"  Miss 
Warren  would  say  occasionally  after  the  French  pass- 
words had  been  given  and  returned.  "  This  is  Miss 
Gorgas  Levering." 

"  We  welcome  you  to  our  school,"  the  well  drilled 
young  ladies  would  recite,  step  two  steps  forward,  shake 


"  BONG-JOUR  "  115 

hands  like  a  drill  sergeant,  bow  and  retire  to  a  room 
set  apart  for  assembly. 

More  "  Bon  jours  "  went  on  until  about  thirty  girls, 
ranging  from  ten  to  eighteen,  had  assembled.  Gorgas 
was  ushered  in  with  the  others  and  given  a  seat.  A  bell 
was  tapped  somewhere  in  the  house;  the  polite  un- 
natural murmur  hushed.  Another  bell  tapped;  the 
girls  rose  and  stood  waiting  for  the  customary  prayer, 
but  a  clatter  in  the  hall  turned  heads  and  set  very  nat- 
ural tongues  a-wagging.  Two  or  three  smart  taps  on 
the  bell  brought  only  partial  order.  A  heavy  voice  in 
the  hallway  caused  smiles  of  recognition. 

"  Am  I  late  again?  "  it  cried  impatiently. 

The  words  of  one  of  the  teachers  could  not  be 
heard,  but  the  reply  of  the  late-comer  was  quite  clear. 

"  Darn  it,  I'm  always  late !  "  the  heavy  voice  boomed 
out.  "  Your  old  clock's  wrong.  I  know  I  started  in 
plenty  of  time  this  morning." 

"  Bea  Wilcox ! "  The  name  was  uttered  aloud  by 
several  excited  girls.  Miss  Warren  called  the  group 
smartly  to  attention  and  requested  Miss  Lewis  to  see 
that  proper  care  was  taken  of  the  unruly  late-comer, 
but  while  heads  turned  to  the  front  dutifully  and 
silence  came,  the  jo}^ful  wreaths  on  the  faces  were  not 
so  easily  ordered  away.  Bea  Wilcox  was  the  one  rift 
in  the  morning's  respectable  gloom. 

"  I'm  sorry,  Miss  Warren,"  Bea  exclaimed  comfort- 
ingly as  she  tore  off  her  gloves  and  took  her  place  in 
assembly.  "  I  tried  to  get  here,  honest  I  did.  Your 
clock's  awful  fast." 


116  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  If  you  please,  Miss  Wilcox,"  the  principal  assumed 
her  deadliest  tones,  "  we  prefer  to  hear  your  excuses  in 
private.  And  I  wish  you  would  soften  down  your  very 
—  uh  —  heavy  voice ;  and  please  do  not  say  *  awful.' ' 

A  chill  passed  over  the  room,  thawed  instantly  by 
Bea. 

"  Oh,  all  right,"  she  chirped  in  cheery  basso.  "  But 
it  ain't  my  fault  if  the  clock's  wrong;  is  it?  " 

"  If  you  will  be  so  good  as  not  to  speak.  And  pray 
remember  that  *  ain't '  is  not  good  English." 

"Oh,  ain't  it?"  she  inquired  pleasantly,  adding,  as 
if  to  her  compatriots,  "but  I  bet  the  thingembob's  off 
the  pendulum." 

"  Miss  Wilcox !  "  the  command  was  peremptory. 

"Yes'm?" 

The  "  yes'm  "  was  most  deferential.  It  was  meant 
to  be.  Miss  Wilcox  was  the  big,  muscular  type  of  girl 
that  goes  in  for  athletics,  cares  little  for  books,  loving 
rather  to  strive  muscle  against  muscle  than  to  swaddle 
and  grow  prim  and  become  self-conscious  of  nose  and 
eyelash.  These  athletic  girls  are  glorious  at  tennis 
and  hockey  —  Bea  Wilcox,  at  fifteen,  was  a  wonder  at 
both  sports ;  she  could  even  bat  and  play  first-base  like 
a  man  —  but  they  are  not  usually  considered  refined. 
Delicate  intellectual  shadings  they  do  not  always  per- 
ceive. Her  "  yes'm  "  was  a  rough  attempt  at  respect, 
but  it  drew  a  titter  from  the  precise  young  ladies. 

The  titter  from  the  comic  "  yes'm  "  had  hardly  died 
out  before  a  far  off  bell,  tolling  lazily,  proclaimed  that 


«  BONG-JOUR  "  117 

in  at  least  one  church  tower  a  belated  nine-o'clock  was 
being  celebrated. 

"  There ! "  cried  Miss  Wilcox,  striking  a  listening 
attitude.  "  Listen !  D'y'  hear  that !  Ah !  ha !  Miss 
Warren !  We  always  go  by  that  bell.  I  told  you  you 
were  fast." 

"  You  will  kindly  leave  the  room,  Miss  Wilcox,"  Miss 
Warren  spoke  with  dignified  forbearance.  "  Pray,  go 
to  my  office." 

"  Now,  what  have  I  done ! "  The  young  lady  moved 
belligerently  toward  the  hallway.  "  Always  getting 
jumped  on  for  doin'  nothin'." 

What  had  she  done?  Gorgas  asked  herself.  But 
she  did  not  ask  aloud.  Nor  did  anyone  else.  Thirty 
youngsters  watched  the  unlucky  Wilcox  girl  flounce  out 
of  the  room,  each  knowing  that  it  would  mean  a  long 
lecture,  a  detention  after  school,  the  punishment  of 
much  memorization  of  Bible  verses,  and  perhaps  the 
writing  out  of  a  thousand  replicas  of  the  sentence, 
"  Children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard  " ;  and  cer- 
tainly it  would  mean  a  letter  to  the  elder  Wilcoxes,  in 
which  Bea  would  not  appear  a  heroine.  There  was  no 
protest  from  her  own  mates,  except  the  mute  flash  of 
understanding  from  one  to  the  other  which  implied  that 
here  was  one  more  irresistible  victory  of  authority  over 
justice. 

Gorgas  found  herself  marching  in  a  silent  line  — 
silent  save  for  some  furtive  whispering  as  they  turned 
safe  corners  in  hall  or  stairway  —  supervised  by  ferret- 


118  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

eyed  teachers.  She  was  tolled  off  to  a  group  that  met 
in  one  of  the  western  rooms  on  the  second  floor.  Trees 
—  big  chestnuts  —  shot  above  the  windows  and  left  a 
view  of  lawn  and  rising  hill  beyond ;  and  some  of  their 
leaves  brushed  just  beyond  reach,  so  that  they  could  be 
heard  distinctly  as  they  whisked  back  and  forth  against 
the  house. 

Teachers  came  and  went.  They  heard  lessons 
mainly,  and  gave  marks  in  a  book  for  every  word 
spoken.  While  they  were  gracious  in  a  sort  of  unbend- 
ing way,  they  seemed  ever  alert,  like  a  Trappist  lady 
superior,  to  catch  someone  breaking  the  eternal  vow 
of  silence.  Even  as  they  relieved  one  another  on  guard, 
they  would  watch  the  class  with  worried,  roving  eyes, 
until  the  last  reluctant  moment.  That  vigilance  crept 
into  their  faces;  it  labeled  them  wherever  they  went, 
even  in  their  vacations ! 

Gorgas  was  mercifully  permitted  to  look  on  during 
the  long  hours  of  that  first  day,  although  she  was  given 
detailed  instructions  for  the  lessons  that  were  to  be 
learned  by  the  morrow.  There  was  a  long  spelling  list, 
including  Cambodia,  peristyle,  ratiocination,  caryatid, 
and  other  hard  ones ;  a  list  of  the  mountains  of  the 
world  with  the  exact  height  of  each ;  a  section  of  Ameri- 
can history  to  be  memorized  —  the  story  of  John  Smith 
and  Pocahontas,  which  nobody  believes  nowadays  — 
the  conjugation  of  several  French  verbs,  and  some 
problem  in  arithmetic  which  aimed  to  discover  that  if 
fourteen  men  working  six  hours  a  day  could  dig  a  ditch 
four  feet  wide,  six  feet  deep  and  ten  feet  long  in  three 


«  BONG-JOUR  "  119 

days,  how  many  men  working  four  days,  seven  hours  a 
day,  it  would  require  to  dig  a  ditch  three  feet  wide,  five 
feet  deep  and  twelve  feet  long.  And  there  was  "  liter- 
ature " :  the  memorization  of  the  dates  of  birth  and 
death  of  Cotton  Mather  and  his  contemporaries. 

The  French  class  offered  hope  at  first.  Mile. 
Schwartz  —  German-Swiss  —  looked  French  as  she 
bobbed  into  the  room,  a  vivacious,  worried  little  woman. 
She  said,  "  I  liopp  you  do  know  the  vairbs  today."  It 
was  a  vain  "  hopp."  The  piece  de  resistance  was  a 
future  perfect: 

I  shall  have  been  regarded, 

Thou  shalt  have  been  regarded, 

He  shall  have  been  regarded. 

Gorgas,  who  knew  French,  found  the  phrase  new. 
She  wondered  if  anyone  would  ever  need  to  "  have  been 
regarded."  But  to  Mille.  Schwartz  it  was  the  open 
sesame  to  all  of  French ;  that  and  its  even  more  bristling 
negative  interrogative : 

Shall  I  not  have  been  regarded? 

Shalt  thou  not  have  been  regarded?  etc. 

The  prize  of  Mile.  Schwartz's  praise  went  to  a  little 
be-spectacled  girl  on  the  front  row  who  knew  her  "  shall- 
have-been-regarded's  "  backward  and  forwards. 

"  Ah !  Bessie,"  Mile.  Schwartz  would  pounce  on  her 
in  despair  of  the  others,  "  the  past  anterior ! "  Bessie 
knew  the  past  anterior.  "  The  pluperfect !  "  Bessie 
knew  the  pluperfect.  And  the  subjunctive,  and  the  in- 
dicative interrogative. 
Gorgas  felt  ashamed.  She  knew  no  French,  after  all ! 


130  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

In  spite  of  all  her  chatter  with  Bardek,  she  was  ignor- 
ant of  the  language.  So  she  edged  over  to  the  Bessie 
girl  at  the  fifteen  minute  recess,  shyly,  as  one  would 
toward  a  superior. 

"  It  was  beautiful,"  Gorgas  spoke  quickly  in  French, 
a  nervous  tribute  to  the  perfect  scholar.  "  Ah  I  how  it 
was  beautiful,  the  conjugations  which  you  know  so 
well!" 

"Huh?"  Bessie  looked  across  her  spectacles.  She 
was  munching  a  bun,  and  spoke  with  difficulty. 

"  The  French  that  you  know  so  wonderfully ! " 
Gorgas  kept  eagerly  to  the  French.  "  I  speak  it  and 
read  it,  but  I  never  knew  about  the  conjugations.  Is  it 
very  hard?  When  I  heard  you  speak  I  was  ashamed 
not  to  know  them.  They  all  seemed  so  familiar,  yet  I 
did  not  know  them." 

"  Don't  she  talk  funny ! "  Bessie  smiled  weakly  at 
the  group  beside  her.  Then  she  added,  "  I  don't  under- 
stand her.  Is  it  some  foreign  language?  " 

"  But  you  know  French !  " 

"  Was  that  French  what  you  just  spoke?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Gee !  girls ! "  Bessie  looked  about  her.  '*  She  can 
talk  in  French ! " 

"  But  you  do,  too,"  Gorgas  was  fearful  of  being  alone 
in  this. 

"  Me  ?  "  inquired  Bessie.  "  No.  I  don't  know  any 
spedkvn?  French.  I  only  know  conjugations.  Speakin' 
French  don't  come  for  years  —  not  till  you  get  to  col- 
lege." 


"  BONG-JOUR  "  1*1 

A  heavy  voice  interrupted.  It  came  from  across  the 
lawn. 

"  Whoo-oo ! "  it  called  j  oy fully  and  drew  nearer. 
The  owner  was  loping  in  ungainly  bounds.  "  I'm  let 
out !  "  Bea  Wilcox  shouted.  Then  she  glanced  at  the 
office  corridors  and  lowered  her  voice  to  a  hoarse  whis- 
per which  penetrated  almost  as  far  as  her  normal  tones. 
"  I'm  loose !  Don't  come  too  near,  everybody."  She 
put  her  long  arms  around  the  nearest  girls,  one  of 
whom  was  Gorgas,  and  hugged  them  to  her.  "  I'm 
dangerous,  I  am!  Old  Bong-joor  said  I  was  —  the 
sweet  old  Lavender-Box.  She  said  I  was  to  be  par-tic- 
u-lar-ly  careful" — old  Bong-joor  was  being  imitated 
now  — "  not  to  obflusticate  the  fiddlesticks  of  these  deah 
innocent  guhls,  especially  the  young  lady,  Miss,  uh, 
Brownface,  who  had  just  enrolled.  Where's  Brown- 
face?  " 

Brownface  was  being  hugged  gloriously  by  Bea's 
strong  right  arm. 

"Oh!  Oh!"  B'ea  cried  as  she  loosed  the  other  arm 
and  hugged  Gorgas  to  her.  "  Be  careful,  Browny. 
Don't  get  too  close  to  me.  I'm  dangerous ! "  Back 
and  forth  she  rocked  Gorgas.  "  I'm  ketchin'.  I'm  the 
human  colery  morbus." 

"And  she  can  talk  in  French,"  piped  up  Bessie  of 
the  spectacles. 

Bea  thrust  Gorgas  at  arms  length. 

"  Can  you?  " 

"Yes." 

"Honest?" 


122  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"Yes." 

"  Is  it  ketchin'?  "     This  with  mock  fear. 

Only  laughter  answered  this  question. 

"  Well,  I  want  it  to  be."  Bea  nodded  her  head  vin- 
dictively. "I  want  to  ketch  a  whole  lot  of  it.  Old 
Bong-joor  gave  me  ten  pages  of  French  exercises  to 
write  out.  Browny,  you're  my  lucky  stone.  I'm  going 
to  love  you."  She  grabbed  Gorgas  once  more  and 
rocked  her  like  a  baby,  "  Will  you  do  every  one  of  them 
for  me?" 

Gorgas  said  she  would  be  glad  to  help. 

"Help?"  croaked  Bea.  "I  don't  want  help.  I 
just  want  you  to  do  the  whole  biz  for  me.  I  can't  even 
punctuate  in  French.  And  see  here,  Bessie  Four-eyes," 
she  reached  forward  with  her  foot  and  drew  that  lady 
nearer,  "  if  anybody  '  spills  '  this  to  Bong-j  oor — any- 
body, mind;  I'm  not  sayin'  who  —  they'll  have  their 
backbones  taken  out  very  carefully  and  dusted  off  — 
bone  by  bone." 

The  good  arm  never  left  Gorgas.  It  protected  her 
and  warmed  her  and  temporarily  drove  off  the  chill  of 
the  school-house. 


HONOEIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS 

BUT    even    the    impetuous    friendliness    of    Bea 
Wilcox  could  not  quite  dispel  the  chill  of  the 
school-house.     Until  some  arrangements  could 
be  made  for  afternoon  hours  at  the  Applied  Arts  School 
Gorgas  was  to  spend  her  whole  day  at  the  Warren 
School.     They   were   hours   of   dreary  inactivity,   en- 
forced silence,  enforced  immobility ;  and  "  lessons  "  that 
appealed  to  no  normal  healthy  instinct. 

In  two  weeks  Gorgas  rebelled.  Every  night  she  had 
memorized  dutifully  the  odds  and  ends  of  unprofitable 
facts  that  had  been  detailed  for  home  study.  But  they 
would  not  stay  fixed  in  her  mind.  She  knew  the  exact 
height  in  feet  of  Mt.  Etna,  the  list  of  the  counties  of 
her  native  State  with  the  name  of  the  chief  city,  in- 
numerable pages  of  a  stupid  political  history  of  the 
United  States,  lists  of  births  and  deaths,  and  the  popu- 
lation of  a  score  of  cities.  Bessie  and  her  tribe,  weak- 
lings physically,  shone  in  the  class-room.  They 
"  knew  "  everything.  They  were  eager  to  display  and 
greedy  for  book-facts ;  but  they  never  questioned  the 
usefulness  of  anything. 

"  The  population  of  New  York  city,  Miss  Levering, 
123 


1*4  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

please?  "  Miss  Lewis,  the  geography  teacher,  was  quiz' 
zing. 

"  May  I  ask,  Miss  Lewis,"  Gorgas  plucked  up  courage 
to  inquire,  "  why  anyone  should  have  to  know  that  ?  " 

"  Please  do  not  be  impertinent,  Miss  Levering." 

Miss  Lewis  was  not  a  good  disciplinarian  and  she 
knew  it.  A  native  graciousness  and  meekness  pre- 
vented her  from  succeeding  in  quelling  pupils;  but  she 
struggled  hard  to  dominate. 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  to  be  impertinent,"  Gorgas  went 
on  eagerly.  "  But  population  is  always  changing. 
Our  book  tells  us  the  number  of  people  who  lived  in  New 
York,  but  only  for  1880.  Why,  that  was  eight  years 
ago !  With  millions  of  immigrants  and  —  uh  —  births, 
you  know,  it  must  be  much  bigger  now.  When  you  were 
a  school  girl  you  had  to  memorize  populations,  but, 
you  see,  they're  of  no  use  now.  We'll  have  to  do  it  all 
over  again  after  the  census  of  1890;  won't  we?" 

"I  —  I  —  well,  I  suppose  so ;  yes,"  Miss  Lewis  had 
never  questioned  the  traditional  pabulum  of  the  school 
course.  She  was  not  of  courageous  mould.  '*  But  I 
am  afraid  you  will  have  to  learn  your  lessons  just  the 
same.  So  kindly  answer  my  question:  what  is  the 
population  of  New  York  ?  " 

"  But,  don't  you  see,"  Gorgas  did  not  notice  the  eager 
movement  among  her  classmates,  who  took  sides  in- 
stinctively in  favor  of  every  rebellion  against  authority ; 
nor  did  she  see  the  weak  look  of  fear  and  determina- 
tion in  the  eyes  of  her  teacher.  '*  But  don't  you  see, 
no  one  can  tell?  And  what  do  you  mean  by  New  York 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS      125 

city?  All  the  people  who  live  there?  Or  the  people 
who  visit  New  York  —  they  say  there  are  thousands 
and  thousands  of  visitors.  And  what  about  Brooklyn 
and  Jersey  City  —  I've  been  looking  at  the  map  —  it's 
all  one  big  city.  I  know  a  man  who  lives  in  New  Jersey 
who  has  his  business  in  New  York,  and  he  says  there  are 
thousands  like  him.  How  can  you  tell  how  many  there 
are  in  New  York  city  this  minute  ?  Nobody  could  pos- 
sibly count  them." 

"  If  you  do  not  know  your  lesson,  Miss  Levering,  I 
must  ask  you  to  be  seated." 

"  But  you  don't  understand,"  Gorgas  was  enthus- 
iastic in  her  childlike  earnestness.  "  Nobody  knows 
that  lesson.  Even  you  don't  know  it,  Miss  Lewis." 

All  might  have  been  well,  but,  unfortunately,  the  class 
broke  into  an  unpremeditated  whoop.  Tappings  on 
the  desk  brought  no  respect  for  authority.  The  young- 
sters saw  nothing  but  lovely  audacious  baiting  in  Gor- 
gas' innocent  speech. 

The  tumult  brought  Miss  Warren  to  the  door.  Gor- 
gas was  till  standing,  conscious  now,  as  evidenced  by  her 
flushed  face,  that  she  had  caused  trouble.  Silence  fell 
like  a  blight  on  the  group;  one  youngster  tugged  at 
Gorgas'  skirt,  aiming  to  be  helpful ;  and  another  risked 
punishment  by  boldly  whispering  that  "Bong-joor" 
was  at  the  door. 

But  Gorgas  could  not  retreat.  That  would  be  to 
acknowledge  wrongdoing.  So  she  not  only  stood  her 
ground,  but  continued  speaking. 

"  I  don't  see  the  use  of  it,  Miss  Lewis,  really  I  don't." 


126  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  What  is  it  that  the  young  lady  does  not  see  the 
use  of? "  Miss  Warren  inquired  majestically.  Even 
Gorgas  knew  from  the  tone  that  she  was  already  judged 
and  destined  for  her  first  punishment.  Miss  Lewis 
lamely  tried  to  put  the  case ;  she  wanted  to  be  fair,  but 
her  little  four  hundred  dollars  a  year,  her  very  life,  in 
fact,  was  at  issue ;  she  could  see  failure  hovering  before 
her,  so  she  plucked  up  a  borrowed  strength  from  the 
orderly  class  and  threw  the  blame  upon  Gorgas. 

Miss  Warren  was  quite  calm.  "  I  have  noticed  that 
Miss  Levering,  unlike  her  sister,  who  was  a  great  credit 
to  our  school,  does  not  easily  conform  to  rules.  She 
does  not  keep  a  good  '  line,'  and  I  notice  that  she  talks 
to  others  in  the  halls.  I  had  meant  to  speak  to  her 
about  this,  and  other  matters  that  have  come  to  my 
attention,  but  preferred  to  wait,  hoping  that  as  she 
was  new  to  us  she  would  eventually  understand  and  sub- 
mit to  authority.  But  it  seems  that  my  forbearance 
was  a  mistake.  We  cannot  have  rebellious  spirits  in 
our  school,  Miss  Lewis.  It  would  not  be  fair  to  the 
parents  who  have  entrusted  to  us  the  moral  respon- 
sibility of  training  their  children  and  who  look  upon  our 
school  as  an  environment  free  from  contaminating  in- 
fluences. At  recess  time,  Miss  Lewis,  will  you  be  so 
good  as  to  send  the  young  lady  to  my  office  ?  " 

"  I  have  done  nothing  wrong,  Miss  Warren,"  Gorgas 
stirred  her  nervous  tongue  to  say. 

Miss  Warren  fixed  her  with  a  smile. 

"  I  can  quite  comprehend,"  she  said,  "  that  you  think 
you  have  done  nothing  wrong.  However,  your  parents, 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS       127 

wisely  or  not,  have  permitted  us  to  be  the  sole  judge  in 
such  matters.  You  will  find  us  very  fair  and  very 
just;  and  also  very  firm." 

The  interview  with  Miss  Warren  was  full  of  the  same 
numbing  type  of  monologue.  But  no  other  "  punish- 
ment "  followed.  Gorgas  was  led  to  feel  that  she  was 
on  probation;  that  mercy  had  been  shown  to  her  ig- 
norance of  the  rights  of  constituted  authority ;  and  that 
her  future  stay  in  the  school  would  be  entirely  dependent 
on  herself.  In  the  whole  interview  Gorgas  spoke  not  a 
single  word. 

But  she  raged,  nevertheless,  at  the  public  humilia- 
tion. In  the  recess  periods  the  girls  hailed  her  with 
delight,  but  she  got  no  joy  from  that.  Mistily  she 
thought  of  Bardek  and  the  free  play  of  thought  that  he 
allowed,  by  which  she  learned  prodigiously  every  min- 
ute ;  and  she  thought  of  Allen  Blynn,  who  treated  her  as 
a  human  being  and  opened  up  springs  of  intellectual 
delight  for  her  thirsty  soul ;  and  even  of  Leopold,  who 
talked  science  with  her  as  if  she  were  a  colleague.  And 
in  none  of  her  conversations  with  those  men  had  there 
been  aught  of  heights  of  mountains,  and  boundaries  of 
counties,  and  populations  of  cities. 

One  evening,  when  she  had  been  struggling  to  mem- 
orize a  list  of  uses  of  the  French  subjunctive,  she  re- 
solved to  rebel.  Leopold  had  dropped  in  and  had 
wasted  the  best  part  of  her  study  period  by  chattering 
with  her  in  French.  Together  they  had  reviewed  the 
French  lesson  for  the  morrow  and  agreed  that  for  them 
the  French  subjunctive  did  not  exist. 


128  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Even  the  French  do  not  know  those  rules,"  he  told 
her.  "  And  many  persons  know  them  perfectly  without 
knowing  French  at  all." 

"  Then  I  will  not  learn  them,"  Gorgas  closed  her  book 
abruptly. 

"  I  wouldn't  do  that !  "  he  laughed.  "  Miss  Warren 
will  send  you  kiting.  And  then  what  will  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  will  leave  school,"  she  decided.  "  I  can't  breathe 
in  that  place." 

But  she  resolved  to  tell  Allen  Blynn  first.  It  grieved 
her  to  disappoint  him ;  so  she  would  not  take  the  decisive 
step  until  she  had  informed  him  of  all  the  necessities  of 
the  case.  He  had  certain  rights,  she  admitted. 

But  Allen  Blynn  was  hard  to  find.  His  visits  to  the 
Leverings  had  been  most  infrequent  and  casual.  A  sus- 
picion had  come  to  her  sensitive  soul  that  he  had  pre- 
ferred not  to  see  much  of  her.  Her  entrances  had 
usually  been  the  sign  for  his  leave-takings. 

She  tried  to  get  courage  to  go  directly  to  him;  she 
had  even  got  so  far  as  the  house;  but  always  she  fled. 
So  she  took  the  weak  course  and  wrote  him : 

Dear  Mr.  Blyrm: 

I  am  going  to  leave  school  immediately. 

I  remain,  Very  sincerely  yours, 

GORGAS  LEVERING. 

The  next  mail  brought  an  answer. 

Dear  Miss  Gorgas: 

You  are  not  going  to  do  anything  of  the  sort  —  at 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS       129 

least  not  until  we  have  had  a  good  talk  on  Saturday 
afternoon,  beginning  promptly  at  three  o'clock. 
I  also  remain, 

Very  sincerely  but  very  firmly  yours, 

ALLEN  BLYNN. 

On  Saturday  afternoon  she  was  waiting  for  him  on 
the  old-fashioned  settle  before  the  door  of  her  home. 

"  Hello,  missy ! "  he  called  to  her  from  the  gate. 
"  When  do  you  graduate?  " 

"S-sh ! "  she  whispered,  and  nodded  toward  the 
house. 

As  he  drew  near  he  gave  a  mock  whisper  in  return, 
"  I've  figured  it  out  that  they  must  have  promoted  you 
a  class  every  two  days  and  a  half.  So  you're  to  grad- 
uate immediately.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  We've  got  to  walk,"  she  spoke  low. 

"  Whither,  fellow  conspirator." 

"  To  the  tennis-courts." 

"  Ah ! "  he  mimicked  an  actor,  "  'twas  there  we  met." 

"  This  is  no  j  oke,"  she  declined  to  catch  his  spirit. 
"  I'm  going  to  quit." 

It  was  October  and  the  tennis-courts  were  bare;  so 
they  had  the  field  to  themselves  as  they  sat  on  the  home- 
made judge's  bench. 

" '  Begin  at  the  beginning,' "  said  Blynn,  "  as  the 
King  said  to  the  White  Rabbit,  *  go  on  until  you  come 
to  the  end,  and  then  stop.'  " 

The  tale  was  unfolded,  populations,  scoldings,  sub- 
junctive and  all. 


130  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Blynn  laughed.  "Is  it  as  bad  as  that?  I  had  no 
idea  the  school  was  such  a  dungeon.  Why,  it  is  sup- 
posed to  be  a  first-class  institution!  I'll  never  believe 
another  prospectus." 

"  Do  you  know,  Mr.  Blynn,  how  many  people  are  in 
New  York  city  at  this  minute  ?  " 

"  Bless  my  soul,  no ! "  he  shook  his  head  ruefully.  "  I 
shouldn't  want  to  have  that  on  my  conscience.  It's 
much  easier  to  take  the  count  of  1880." 

"But  that  wasn't  right,  even  in  1880,"  she  con- 
tinued seriously. 

"  Yes,"  he  laughed ;  "  New  York  has  grown  bigger 
even  while  we've  been  talking;  or  maybe  smaller,  for 
half  the  town  may  have  gone  to  Coney  Island  for  over 
Sunday." 

"  What  does  it  matter  how  many  people  live  in  New 
York?"  she  asked.  "I  want  to  know;  really.  Miss 
Warren  thinks  it  very  important  —  although  she 
doesn't  know  herself  how  many  were  there  even  in  1880." 

"  Well,  bless  my  soul,  did  you  ask  her  ?  " 

"  Yes ;  she  told  me  to  come  in  and  see  her  if  ever  I 
wanted  to  know  anything.  So  one  morning  I  asked 
her  about  New  York.  She  made  a  guess,  but  she  was 
thousands  off.  '  Excuse  me,  Miss  Warren,'  I  said  —  I 
was  sticky  with  politeness,  '  but  I  think  that's  what  it 
was  in  1820.  I'm  sure  it's  grown  bigger  every  year 
since  that  time ;  but  I  suppose  that  was  the  correct  an- 
swer when  you  went  to  school.' ' 

"  Ha !     And  what  did  she  say  to  that  ?  " 

"  She  looked  me  over  very  carefully,  but  decided  that 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS       131 

I  didn't  look  bright  enough.  I  didn't.  I  flattened  my 
face  out  —  this  way."  Her  face  took  on  the  appear- 
ance of  a  dull  image ;  life  went  out  of  her  eyes. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  Gorgas,  don't !  You  look  feeble- 
minded ! "  And  Gorgas  knew  that  Allen  Blynn  was 
paying  the  actress  a  stupendous  compliment.  "  Go 
on ! "  he  said.  "  Go  on !  This  is  great !  " 

"  Then  I  told  her  the  right  number,  but  pretended 
to  guess  it  —  1,202,299  —  that's  what  the  book  says, 
anyway.  All  the  time  she  was  hunting  for  a  geog- 
raphy. *  I'm  sure  that  is  not  right,  Miss  Levering,' 
but  it  was:  1,202,299.  She  hated  me  for  knowing  it, 
too;  I  could  see  it  in  her  eye,  and  I  just  knew  she 
wouldn't  let  me  stay  right.  'In  1880,'  I  helped  her. 
*  Ah ! '  she  swallowed  the  bait.  '  Of  course,  Miss  Lever- 
ing, in  1880!  But  that  was  eight  years  ago.  Since 
then,  I  have  no  doubt,  it  has  increased  considerably  — 
considerably.'  'How  much  is  it  now,  Miss  Warren?' 
I  asked  as  if  she  knew  everything ; '  how  much  exactly  ?  ' 
She  swelled  up  and  said, '  Well,  we  shan't  be  able  to  tell 
that  until  the  next  census  is  completed.  Of  course,  no 
one  knows  exactly.' ' 

"  Treason !  "  cried  Blynn.  "  She  ought  to  have  been 
scolded  for  that  speech ! " 

"  And  in  public ! "  Gorgas  was  still  vibrating  from 
that  open  rebuke.  "That's  why  I  got  my  dressing 
down  before  the  whole  class,  too.  I'll  never  forgive  her 
for  that.  It  was  beastly.  So  I  just  said  sweetly,  '  I 
am  so  glad  you  say  that,  Miss  Warren.  That's  what 
I  told  Miss  Lewis,  but  she  said  it  was  still  1,202,299. 


132  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

It's  funny,  too,'  I  went  on ;  *  for  that's  what  you  repri- 
manded me  for  before  the  class.  Thank  you  so  much. 
Goodby,'  and  I  shot  out  before  she  could  recover." 

"  That's  very  subtle,"  Blynn  commented.  "  Do  you 
really  think  she  caught  your  jab?  " 

"  Oh,  yes  indeedy !  If  you  could  see  the  beady  look 
in  old  Bong-jour's  eye  the  next  morning.  She  was 
ready  for  me,  but  so  was  I.  When  she  bong-j  oured  me 
I  bong-j  oured  her  back.  Bong- jour!  Huh!  She 
doesn't  know  French,  either." 

"Of  course,  she  doesn't,"  Blynn  chuckled.  "Most 
of  that  school  French  is  the  woodenest  stuff.  How  did 
you  find  out,  Missy?  " 

"Oh,  when  she  Bong-j  oured  me  that  morning,  I 
came  back  fast.  It  took  her  off  her  pins.  I  asked 
her  questions  in  French,  and  then  told  her  in  English 
that  she  hadn't  answered  'em.  I  came  later  than  the 
rest  so  as  there'd  be  a  crowd  around.  I  made  her  own 
up  that  she  couldn't  follow  me.  She  tried  to  talk  me 
down  high-and-mighty-like,  and  pretend  that  my  French 
was  bad;  but  I  jabbered  right  off  to  Mile.  Schwartz. 
Ma'm'selle  isn't  very  strong  on  the  French  herself  — ' 

"What!    Another  fraud!" 

"Well,  she  can  do  the  French  all  right,  but  she's 
really  German  and  got  her  French  mostly  out  of  books. 
But  she's  a  demon  on  conjugations  and  rules." 

"  Well,  did  Ma'm'selle  stand  by  you?  " 

"  You  bet.  I  just  went  a  little  slower  for  her.  She's 
afraid  of  me  —  more  afraid  of  me  than  she  is  of  Bong- 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS       133 

jour  —  so  she  always  slams  French  back  at  me,  to  show 
she  understands." 

"  Well ! "  Blynn  was  delighted.  "  Did  the  old  lady 
own  up?  " 

"  Partly,  but  everybody  in  school  knows  she's  an  old 
fraud.  She  cried, '  Slower !  Oh,  slower !  ma  cherie,  s'il 
voiiz  plait,9  with  a  gasp  after  each  word.  But  I  never 
slower-ed  a  minute.  I  j  abbered  all  the  faster." 

"And  so  you're  going  to  chuck  it?"  he  inquired 
mildly. 

"  Yes." 

He  thought  for  awhile  —  to  her  a  disconcerting 
thing ;  it  made  her  feel  in  the  wrong. 

**  Oh,  I  shouldn't  mind  the  fool  lessons,  perhaps,"  she 
took  new  ground,  "  if  it  weren't  for  the  hours  of  silence, 
sitting  at  wooden  desks  without  so  much  as  a  squirm. 
Some  day  I'll  break  out  and  scream.  .  .  .  You  don't 
think  I  ought  to  stay,  do  you,  Mr.  Blynn?  " 

"  Yes,"  he  nodded  cheerfully.  "  Bad  as  it  is,  my  ad- 
vice is  to  stick." 

"Why?" 

"  It's  a  part  of  my  philosophy." 

"What's  philosophy?" 

"  Philosophy?  "  He  dug  his  stick  in  the  sod  at  the 
edge  of  the  court.  "  It's  one's  theory  of  life." 

She  hugged  both  knees  and  settled  back  on  the  bench. 

"  I  like  your  theories.     Tell  me  about  it." 

"  My  theory  is  — " 

They  both  laughed  at  the  memory  of  the  time  they 


THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

had  talked  over  "Andrea  del  Sarto,"  and  he  had  been 
prolific  of  "  theories." 

"  It's  hard  to  put  into  words,"  he  mused.  "  You 
know,  I'm  what  the  Irish  call  a  '  spoiled  priest.' ' 

"What's  that?" 

"  It's  a  man  who  starts  out  to  be  a  priest,  but  falters 
on  the  way  and  becomes  a  teacher.  He's  a  priest  just 
the  same ;  the  religious  strain  is  strong  in  him ;  he  will 
preach  on  the  slightest  provocation.  No  matter  what 
he  does  to  earn  a  living,  he  will  find  his  main  interest  in 
soul  saving.  There's  always  something  of  the  religious 
zealot  in  him." 

A  look  came  into  his  eyes  that  explained  better  than 
words  what  he  meant  by  zealot;  it  is  the  same  sort  of 
intense  stare,  a  focusing  on  some  distant  ideal,  that 
gives  the  mark  to  ascetics  and  martyrs  and  socialists, 
and  certain  types  of  reformers.  It  wasn't  a  pleasant 
look,  but  it  made  one  confident  hi  the  man;  confident 
that  he  would  drive  himself,  against  his  own  interests, 
to  fulfill  the  duty  as  he  saw  it. 

"  Well,"  he  made  an  attempt  to  begin,  "  it  seems 
very  unreasonable  to  you  that  teachers  should  ask  you 
to  know  what  they  don't  know  themselves;  to  learn 
things  that  are  of  no  use ;  to  walk  '  in  line '  when  you 
might  saunter  out  your  own  way ;  to  keep  silent  when  it 
would  do  no  harm  to  talk.  It  seems  unreasonable, 
doesn't  it?" 

"Well;  it  is!" 

"  I  agree  with  you  —  absolutely  senseless  and  unrea- 
sonable. At  the  same  time,  I  would  obey  the  rules." 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS       135 

"Why?" 

"  Because  I  am  afraid  of  sensible  and  reasonable 
things." 

"I'm  not!" 

"  If  it  were  the  custom  everywhere  to  walk  into  the 
schoolroom  backwards,  I  should  do  just  that."  His 
eyes  narrowed,  and  the  lines  about  his  mouth  grew  tense. 

"  That  would  be  silly." 

"  So  is  the  commandment,  *  Thou  shalt  not  kill.' ' 

"  What ! " 

"  The  reasonable,  sensible  thing  to  do  is  to  kill. 
That's  why  we  go  to  war.  Killing  is  the  most  natural 
emotion,  and  it  is  the  acme  of  reason.  No  murderer 
ever  feels  guilty.  He  has  justified  his  act  by  the  highest 
reasons  of  self-preservation  and  self-advancement.  We 
live  in  the  most  rational  age  the  world  has  ever  known. 
We  have  reasoned  away  all  restrictions.  There  is  no 
such  thing  as  authority  any  more.  In  some  western 
states  they  have  abolished  the  common  law,  and  in  the 
east  certain  classes  of  society  have  abolished  even  the 
common  decencies.  It  is  unreasonable,  they  say,  to  be 
true  to  one's  wife,  to  revere  one's  mother,  to  obey 
parents,  to  pay  debts,  to  stand  by  a  friend,  to  vote  for 
civic  betterment.  All  the  commandments  are  unreason- 
able, including  the  greatest, '  Love  thy  neighbor  as  thy- 
self.' All  that  we  call  moral  and  right  is  unreasonable. 
And  I  believe  they  are  unreasonable.  Sin  is  as  justi- 
fiable as  righteousness  —  more  so,  perhaps.  I  believe 
that,  but  I  also  believe  that  *  the  wages  of  sin  is  death  ' ; 
that's  why  I  am  afraid  of  reason." 


136  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Isn't  it  reasonable  to  be  good  to  others  ?  "  Gorgas 
inquired  wonderingly. 

"  I'm  afraid  not."  Blynn's  lips  were  compressed ;  his 
gaze  was  fixed  on  the  farther  trees.  "  Books  have  been 
written  against  it.  Goodness  is  weakness,  they  tell  us ; 
and  so  it  is.  The  only  right  is  might,  they  tell  us ;  and 
that  is  undoubtedly  the  law  of  survival.  Deceit,  the 
snare,  devouring  murder  —  that  is  the  supreme  law 
of  Nature.  I  believe  that ;  and  yet  ...  I  cannot  take 
my  side  with  evil,  even  though  I  perish." 

Suddenly  he  laughed.  The  slight  hardness  went  out 
of  his  eyes  —  that  hidden  scourging  priest  deep  within 
him  —  and  mon  capltame  took  its  place. 

"Heigh-ho!"  he  whistled.  "Don't  let  me  get 
started  on  that  sort  of  speech.  I'm  a  little  mad  on  that 
side.  I  warn  you.  If  ever  I  get  going  again  like  that, 
say,  *  Honorificabilitudinitatibus.'  .  .  .  It's  a  charm 
out  of  '  Love's  Labour's  Lost.'  Shakespeare  invented 
it." 

"  I'll  never  say  it." 

"  Say  *  Honorificabilitudinitatibus,'  and  keep  your 
fingers  crossed." 

"  I  won't.  That  would  be  most  unreasonable.  I 
want  to  hear  more." 

But  he  did  not  go  on.  "  Mother  had  a  horse  once 
who  got  into  the  oats,"  she  offered  in  illustration.  "  He 
foundered.  I  suppose  he  thought  eating  oats  was  rea- 
sonable enough." 

"Well,  is  it  not?"  Blynn  looked  at  her.  "There 
are  things  I  want  to  do  that  are  as  reasonable  as  that. 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS      137 

I  have  gone  over  every  point  of  the  argument  and  I 
can't  find  a  flaw  in  the  reasoning.  Every  decent  in- 
stinct I  have  says,  Go  ahead.  But  the  unwritten  code 
of  my  race,  the  summed  up  wisdom  that  we  call  custom, 
says,  *  No.  Go  ahead  and  you  will  repent  in  unfore- 
seen miseries.5  ...  *  There  is  a  way  that  seemeih  right 
unto  a  man,  but  the  end  thereof  are  the  ways  of  death.' 
...  So  I  obey.  There  are  those  who  scoff  at  the 
candles  on  the  altar,  who  grow  pert  at  the  expense  of 
old  mysterious  faiths,  who  would  jostle  cheek  and  jowl 
with  Deity.  I  can  quite  understand  them ;  but  I  would 
hesitate  to  follow  them  in  very  deed.  .  .  .  Did  I  hear 
you  say  *  Honorificabilitudinitatibus  '?  " 

"  No." 

"  What  are  you  puzzling  over?  " 

"  I  was  wondering  what  all  this  has  to  do  with  old 
Bong-jour.  I  know  it  means  I'll  have  to  go  back  and 
stand  it ;  but  it  isn't  — "  she  laughed  — "  it  isn't  rea- 
sonable." 

"  No ;  it  isn't,"  he  nodded,  "  and  that's  the  very  rea- 
son you  should  go  back.  The  wisdom  that  is  older  than 
either  you  or  I,  Gorgas,  says  that  youth  must  submit ; 
must  endure ;  must  bow  to  other  wills.  *  A  boy's  will ' 
—  and  a  girl's  will  — '  is  the  wind's  will.'  The  way 
toward  strength  and  mastery  is  first  to  submit.  In 
some  respects  you  should  be  thankful  that  the  way  is 
hard.  The  more  foolish  your  school  exactions  are,  the 
wiser  you  will  become  in  discovering  them.  Already 
you  have  grown  enormously,  due  to  the  Warren  School. 
It  has  brought  out  your  wits  to  match  their  stupidity. 


138  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Remember,  I  don't  say  to  submit  ignorantly.  There's 
no  growth  in  that.  Give  yourself  up  to  the  law;  but 
keep  your  judgment  ever  on  the  alert.  Extract  every 
ounce  of  knowledge  from  your  serfdom ;  but  yourself  be 
free.  The  essence  of  freedom  is  not  rebellion,  but  in- 
telligent surrender." 

The  sun  began  to  drop  down  behind  Chestnut  Hill. 
A  pleasant  crispness  came  into  the  October  afternoon. 

**  It's  time  to  go  back,"  Blynn  arose.  "  I'm  afraid 
the  '  spoiled  priest '  has  bored  you." 

"I  like  him." 

"He  likes  you;  you  are  a  splendid  communicant. 
You  never  interrupt  the  service." 

"  Service  on  the  tennis-courts ! "  she  laughed  as  they 
jogged  down  the  hill  together.  "But  you  won  your 
service,"  she  smiled  up  at  him. 

"  Good  girl ! "  he  spoke  quietly,  a  deep,  congratula- 
tory tone  that  gave  her  a  joyous  surge  of  delight. 
Troubles  vanished.  Her  mind  became  clean-swept  as 
if  by  magic;  pure,  sterilized  of  rebellious  miseries.  It 
was  mental  healing.  "  Good  girl !  I've  won  my  ser- 
vice; yes;  and  I'm  glad.  But  according  to  the  rules 
it's  your  turn  to  serve  now.  I'll  be  watching  every 
gain  you  make.  It's  a  great  fight,  the  fight  against 
oneself.  Glorious !  Don't  give  in  an  inch  1 " 

He  was  of  only  fair  height,  a  spare  youngish  sort  of 
chap ;  she  was  tall  for  fourteen ;  so  they  might  have 
been  taken  at  that  darkened  hour  for  a  pair  of  loitering 
swains. 

"  Where  will  you  be  waiting?  "  Gorgas  asked. 


HONORIFICABILITUDINITATIBUS      139 

"  From  a  near  distance,"  he  answered. 

"  Why  are  you  so  stingy  with  your  talks  ?  "  She 
darted  the  question  with  characteristic  abruptness. 
"  This  is  the  first  real  good  one  we've  had  since 
4  Andrea.' " 

A  group  of  friendly  neighbors  passed.  The  frank 
smiles  on  their  faces  showed  that  they  appreciated  the 
joke  of  twenty-four  and  fourteen  promenading  to- 
gether. But  it  struck  Blynn  like  a  slap  in  the  face. 
He  glared  and  raised  his  hat  energetically. 

"I  must  not  hover  about  you,"  he  spoke  almost 
sharply.  "  The  neighbors  would  be  talking  in  no  time." 

"  Oh,  they  began  that  long  ago,"  she  spoke  without 
the  least  concern.  "  What  do  I  care  what  people  say ! 
Don't  stalk  like  that.  I  can't  keep  up  with  you." 

"  Well,  I  do  !  " 

"Do  what?" 

"  Care  what  people  say ! "  He  was  terribly  in  ear- 
nest. "  I  care  mightily.  You  can't  ignore  the  mass  of 
unseen  thoughts  and  opinions  about  you.  It's  a  force 
like  the  sea  that  can  rise  and  swallow  you.  Don't  set 
your  own  opinions  up  and  ignore  all  that,9'  he  waved 
his  hand  over  Mount  Airy.  "  You  will  be  like  a  canoe 
in  mid-ocean.  *  You  don't  care  what  people  say ! ' 
Be  careful.  Sometimes  the  voice  of  the  race  is  speak- 
ing. And  the  race  is  older  and  wiser  than  any  single 
person  in  it.  Buried  instincts  of  the  race  come  to  the 
top,  and,  behold,  you  have  '  what  people  say.'  The 
voice  of  the  people  is  sometimes  the  voice  of  the  devil ; 
and  sometimes  it  is  the  voice  of  God." 


140  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  What  was  that  word  I  was  to  say  —  Honorifica  — 
what?" 

"  '  Honorificabilitudinitatibus ! '  '  he  laughed  heart- 
ily, like  a  good  sportsman. 

"  Well,  honorifica  —  whatever  it  is ! "  she  said  firmly. 
"  What  you  said  this  afternoon  may  have  been  all  right ; 
but  this  is  just  stuff  and  nonsense.  Do  you  think  I'd 
care  what  anybody  in  Mount  Airy  said  about  me? 
They're  a  pack  of  blithering  fools." 

"  Well,  perhaps  you're  right,"  he  said  cheerfully  as 
he  bade  her  goodby  at  the  gate.  " '  Honorificabilitu- 
dinitatibus '  is  a  great  charm.  It  always  brings  me  to 
my  senses!  Goodby,  Gorgas." 

"  Goodby,"  she  repeated,  and  turned  slowly  up  the 
walk.  To  herself  she  said,  "  The  fools !  The  fools !" 
The  memory  of  the  smirking  faces  that  passed  them  was 
full  upon  her.  "  The  fools !  Now  they've  scared  him 
off ;  just  when  things  were  going  nice ! " 


BOOK  TWO 
The  Hidden  River 

"I  wish  you  wouldn't  squeeze  so,"  said  the  Dormouse,  who  was 
sitting  next  to  her.    "  I  can  hardly  breathe." 
"  1  can't  help  it,"  said  Alice  very  meekly.    "  I'm  growing." 


XI 

SIXTEEN 

GORGAS  was  now  fastened  up  to  a  schedule 
—  her  life  became  organized.  Without  a 
word  she  gave  up  her  open  fight  against  the 
unreasonableness  of  the  traditional  school  customs ; 
accepted  the  absurdities,  and  performed  the  mechanical 
tasks  as  if  they  were  really  worth  doing ;  and  she  found, 
after  a  while,  that,  once  the  ritual  was  learned,  the  ser- 
vice was  not  very  exacting  either  in  brain  or  time. 

The  need  for  tutoring  being  eliminated,  the  regular 
weekly  dinners  at  Levering's  gradually  broke  off. 
Readings  in  literature  were  tried  once  or  twice  with  a 
small  group,  but  they  developed  into  rather  tame  and 
stilted  affairs,  and  were  dropped. 

The  winter  of  '88  and  '89  drifted  by  before  anyone 
was  ready  for  it  to  go.  The  next  year  Blynn  spent  in 
Germany,  where  all  good  scholars  went  in  those  days, 
and  during  the  winter  that  followed  his  return,  the  inti- 
mate connection  with  the  Leverings  seemed  almost  ready 
to  break  off  naturally. 

Several  times  Blynn  and  Gorgas  took  the  afternoon 
to  themselves  and  read  poetry  and  talked.  There  was 
nothing  tame  nor  stilted  about  these  literary  exercises ; 

rather,  they  were  warm  with  the  glow  of  sincere  feel- 

143 


144  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

ing ;  but  they  never  achieved  the  perfect  freedom  of  the 
earlier  meetings.  Allen  Blynn  seemed  to  be  growing 
aloof  and  pedagogic,  and  Gorgas  was  enveloped  for 
good  in  the  protective  reserve  of  the  young  woman. 

Leopold  dropped  in  upon  the  Leverings  with  a  sem- 
blance of  regularity.  In  a  crowd  he  was  smilingly 
silent ;  but  as  an  intimate  guest  he  came  out  and  talked. 
The  latest  news  of  the  biological  sciences  —  all  the  new 
mysteries  and  dramatic  new  discoveries  —  he  put  before 
them  simply  and  clearly,  although  he  made  no  conces- 
sions to  Gorgas'  youth.  She  thrilled  with  gratitude 
because  he  never  once  spoke  to  her  in  a  patronizing  way 
or  seemed  to  consider  for  one  moment  that  she  could  not 
comprehend  every  discussion ;  and  her  acquisitive  young 
soul  expanded. 

And  Ned  Morris  went  on  playing  tennis  with  Gorgas 
until  a  place  had  to  be  set  for  him  regularly  at  the 
Levering  luncheons  and  dinners,  and  on  the  days  of  five 
a.  m.  practice  games,  at  breakfast,  too. 

She  was  sixteen  in  September  —  September  10,  1891 
—  and  gave  a  "  party  " —  one  of  those  affairs  where 
everything  is  planned  seriously,  as  if  for  excited  chil- 
dren —  a  cake  with  candles,  ice  cream  in  animal  moulds, 
snap  bonbons,  and  guests  in  semi-masquerade  —  but 
where  all  the  so-called  children  smile  satirically  and  go 
through  the  ceremonies  in  exaggerated  earnest.  It  is 
really  a  farewell  to  childhood. 

Kate  wrote  Blynn  his  invitation.  "  Gorgas,"  she 
said,  "  insists  upon  celebrating  her  sixteenth  anniver- 
sary with  due  ceremonies  of  cake  and  candle  and  part- 


SIXTEEN  145 

ner.  At  her  suggestion  and  with  the  approval  of 
myself  I  herewith  invite  you  to  come  and  be  my  part- 
ner. Take  care  before  accepting.  I  have  no  idea  of 
the  duties  of  partners.  Perhaps  you  may  have  to  bob 
for  apples  in  tubs ;  or  you  may  have  to  play  *  Copen- 
hagen '  and  kiss  the  little  girls.  It  will  be  outlandish 
and  non  compos  and  characteristic  of  the  Levering 
Liberty  Hall  —  that  you  may  be  assured.  I  fancy  that 
we  old  folks  will  look  on,  (Gracious!  I  am  twenty-five. 
O  Petruchio,  why  stayest  thou  so  long  in  Verona!) 
while  the  children  cavort. 

"  The  ladies  will  masquerade  mildly.  I  shall  wear 
my  mother's  evening  gown  of  1861 ;  so  you  must  per- 
force keep  a  respectable  distance." 

To  the  great  satisfaction  of  everyone  —  they  all  were 
busy  folks  and  had  had  a  slight  chill  at  the  suggestion  of 
children's  party  —  the  guests  were  simply  the  old  din- 
ner group  with  the  addition  of  Bea  Wilcox.  Diccon 
and  Davis  were  wringing  each  other's  hands  as  Blynn 
entered;  Leopold  was  gaily  chatting  with  Gorgas  in 
French;  and  Mary  Weston  and  Betty  Sommers  were 
crowding  around  Ed  Morris,  shaking  both  hands  at 
once. 

"What  has  Ed  been  up  to  now?"  inquired  Blynn. 
"Graduated  or  something?" 

Everyone  laughed;  Blynn  looked  so  eager  and  so 
innocent  of  the  world's  doings. 

"  Ed's  '89,"  Leopold  reminded  Blynn. 

"  You  ought  to  know,"  chirped  Davis,  "  your  markt 
probably  pulled  him  through." 


146  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Mary  Western  took  Blynn  by  the  lapels.  "  Allen 
Blynn,  don't  you  really  and  honestly  read  the  news- 
papers? Ed  Morris  has  done  gone  and  won  the  tennis 
singles  championship  of  Philadelphia  county." 

"  By  the  Great  Horn  Spoon,  boy !  "  Blynn  gripped 
his  hand.  "  I'm  mighty  glad  to  know  that.  Why,  I 
did  see  an  account  of  some  Morris  taking  the  trophy," 
he  defended  himself,  "  but  I  didn't  connect  you  with  the 
business.  Why,  man,  I'd  have  been  there  to  see  you 
do  it." 

"And  you  didn't  hear  about  the  exhibition  mixed 
doubles,  either,"  Bea  tugged  at  his  other  lapel. 

"  Bless  us  all ! "  cried  Allen,  "  don't  tell  me  you  have 
taken  in  Montgomery  and  Lancaster  counties,  too?  " 

"It  was  only  an  exhibition,  Bea,"  Gorgas  called 
out  from  across  the  room,  "  the  others  didn't  half 
try." 

"  Hush,  child,"  retorted  Bea,  "  when  yo'  mammy's 
talkin' !  The  fact  is  —  the  latest  news  is  —  that  Gor- 
gas Levering  and  Edwin  Morris  gave  a  jim-crickety 
exhibition  against  the  champion  '  mixers '  of  the  East 
and—" 

"  Bless  us  again ! "  exclaimed  Allen,  "  don't  tell  me 
that  they  beat  'em ;  eh  ?  " 

"  Yes !  "  said  Bea,  "  they  beat  'em." 

Chorus  of  protests  followed;  a  babel  of  correction. 
Blynn  stopped  his  ears,  until  Gorgas  could  be  heard. 

"  No,  Mr.  Blynn,"  she  said,  "  we  lost  two  sets  of 
10-8  each.  We  were  nearly  fagged,  weren't  we,  Ed? 
And  they  were  fresh  as  daisies.  They  didn't  try;  and 


SIXTEEN  147 

Ed  did  all  the  work.  What  did  you  fib  for,  Bea,  and 
drop  us  down  so  hard?  " 

"  I  repeat,"  said  Bea  solemnly,  "  They  beat  'em. 
Who's  to  dispute  that?  The  professor  of  English  here 
asked,  *  Did  they  beat  'em,'  and  I  just  wanted  him  to 
take  more  care  and  pains  with  his  English  and  not  go 
sp-pilling  his  p-pronouns  p-promiscuously  all  over  the 
p-place.  So,  I  just  said,  'Yes;  they  did  beat  'em' 
And  so  they  did." 

"Aw!  What's  pronouns  between  friends?"  queried 
Diccon,  the  editor.  "  Here  the  girls  get  all  togged  out 
in  their  mothers'  clothes,  and  we're  talking  *  news- 
paper.' '  That  brought  a  fresh  outburst,  mainly  an 
attack  on  Diccon. 

"  Sport's  *  newspaper,' J;i  he  explained  laconically. 
"  I  make  'em  — 'em  here  stands  for  both  sports  and 
newspaper.  What's  in  the  newspaper  is  sport ;  the  rest 
don't  happen.  Blynn  didn't  know  anything  about  Mor- 
ris because  he  forgets  to  read  the  newspapers  —  and  I 
ran  Ed  in  on  the  first  page,  too.  Ah ! "  he  sighed, 
"What  is  fame?" 

At  that  moment  Kate  came  slowly  into  the  room 
and  curtesied.  She  wore  the  small  hoops  of  a  young 
lady  of  '61,  a  dainty  costume,  when  it  is  not  exagger- 
ated ;  and  some  of  the  charm  of  that  sedate  attire  found 
its  way  by  contagion  into  the  personality  of  the  wearer. 
Gentleness  and  sweetness  were  her  prevailing  charms 
that  evening. 

Blynn  watched  her  with  open  interest ;  an  occupation 
which  she  did  not  miss,  even  when  her  back  was  toward 


148  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

him ;  but  he  was  only  thinking  how  that  crinoline  period 
had  been  much  maligned,  and  was  fancying  that  her 
mother  must  have  been  just  such  a  shy,  timorous  crea- 
ture a  quarter  of  a  century  ago. 

Mary  and  Betty  had  discovered  ill-mated  parts  of 
gowns  of  the  early  '80's  —  skin-tight  sleeves,  lace  shawl 
and  enormous  bustles.  Bea  Wilcox  wore  a  genuine 
child's  dress,  her  younger  sister's,  and,  with  her  height, 
looked  as  scandalous  as  she  intended. 

Later,  on  the  lantern-lighted  porch,  Blynn  was  aware 
of  Gorgas  standing  beside  him  holding  out  a  hand  and 
asking : 

"  Weren't  you  ever  coming  over  to  greet  me  and  wish 
me  congratulations  ?  " 

"  By  the  Great  Horn  Spoon ! "  he  ejaculated,  looking 
her  over  open-eyed.  "  What's  happened  to  you?  " 

"  I've  growed  up,  M'sieu'."  Something  had  certainly 
happened  to  her.  Her  masquerade  consisted  simply  of 
the  gown  her  sister  Keyser  would  have  worn  that 
evening  if  there  had  been  no  disguising.  Besides,  she 
had  coiled  her  hair. 

"  This  beats  the  tennis-court  all  hollow,"  he  mur- 
mured, patently  dumbfounded  by  the  change.  "  Retro, 
Sathanas!  Get  thee  behind  me,  silk  and  satin !  " 

"  Do  you  like  it?  "  she  asked ;  but  staring  admiration 
glowed  from  him. 

"  Em  tousand  ein  hundred  ein-und-zwanzig! "  he 
swore  a  la  Bardek.  "  It's  uncanny,  eerie,  spooky !  " 

"  I  did  it  all  for  you,"  she  confided  frankly.  "  Hid 
the  —  uh  —  underpinnings." 


SIXTEEN  149 

"But  good  Scotland,  girl!"  he  replied.  "That's 
not  the  way  to  please  me!  Oh,  it's  glorious.  Good- 
ness !  You  are  stunning !  But  you  always  upset  me 
when  you  —  uh  —  go  without  —  uh  —  underpinnings, 
you  know.  Disconcerts  me."  His  tone  was  that  of  the 
older-man-j  oking-with-little-girl ;  but  his  eyes  shone 
with  admiration.  "  Makes  me  think  I  ought  to  treat 
you  the  way  —  eh  —  I  ought  to  be  ashamed  of  myself 
for  wanting  to.  If  you'd  only  giggle  or  simper  — 
things  you  never  do,  thank  Peter !  —  it  would  give  me 
the  cue,  occasionally." 

"  I  see  you  are  impressed,"  she  smiled  and  tapped  him 
on  the  arm.  "That's  what  I  did  it  for- — just  that. 
.  .  .  You've  got  the  wrong  idea  about  fifteen  and  six- 
teen. Older  persons  always  do.  Fifteen  and  sixteen 
don't  feel  at  all  childlike,  I  can  tell  you.  I'll  never 
be  any  older  than  I  am  now.  My  mind's  grown 
up—" 

"  '  I  do  not  wear  motley  in  my  brain,  madonna,' "  he 
quoted  the  wise  clown,  Feste. 

"  That's  just  it,"  comprehending;  "  and  it's  insuffer- 
able to  dress  us  the  way  they  do  —  skirts  that  are 
neither  long  nor  short,  hair  hanging  or  half  brought 
up  with  ribbons.  And,"  she  whispered,  "  you  get  posi- 
tively ashamed  of  your  —  underpinnings.  I've  let  out 
the  hem  of  some  of  my  skirts  myself  —  on  the  quiet. 
You  don't  know  how  comfortable  and  at  home  I  feel  in 
this."  She  took  several  easy  steps  forward  and  back. 
"  But  mother  won't  listen  to  me.  I'd  be  grown  up  from 
now  on  if  she'd  let  me." 


150  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Others  of  the  party  were  swarming  out  on  the  porch. 
Kate  was  coming  forward  to  claim  her  partner. 

"Listen,  mon  capitaine,"  Gorgas  spoke  hurriedly. 
"  I  want  to  have  a  powwow  with  you.  Stay  a  few  mo- 
ments after  the  others  are  gone ;  will  you  ?  " 

He  agreed,  hardly  comprehending  what  she  had  said. 
Her  eyes  were  searching  him  as  of  old  and  her  hand  was 
ever  so  lightly  touching  his  arm.  All  convention  to  the 
contrary,  she  was  a  woman,  no  doubt ;  but  it  was  the 
delightful  child-like  quality  about  her  that  really 
thrilled  him.  He  was  thinking,  now  that  she  looked  so 
stately  and  poised,  how,  after  all,  it  was  as  a  child  that 
she  appealed  to  him.  A  strong,  painful  desire  swept 
him  to  have  just  such  a  brood  of  his  own  about  him. 
His  impulses  were  domestic  and  parental,  and  he  was 
twenty-six  and  childless. 

Kate  was  talking  to  him  and  he  was  answering  with 
one-half  of  his  mind.  The  other  half  was  following 
Gorgas  as  she  swept  across  the  porch  and  onto  the  lawn 
to  claim  her  partner,  Ed  Morris.  Morris  was  offering 
an  arm  grotesquely  in  tribute  to  her  long  skirts.  They 
marched  off  gaily. 

That's  the  way  she  would  go,  he  tried  to  assure  him- 
self. Some  chap  of  her  own  generation  would  take  her 
away,  and  then  she  would  be  lost.  It  was  the  fate  of 
parents  to  lose  their  offspring.  Real  fathers,  however, 
had  rights  and  claims.  They  could  put  their  arms 
about  their  daughters,  pat  their  cheeks  and  listen  to 
their  prattle,  no  matter  who  else  owned  them ;  and  there 
would  be  no  horrid  suspicions  about  the  matter.  As  he 


SIXTEEN  151 

heard  the  ripples  of  laughter  that  came  from  their  con- 
fidential talks  out  on  the  lawn,  he  had  a  little  pang  of 
regret.  "  Mon  pere"  he  remembered  how  she  had  once 
dubbed  him.  "  Mon  pere,"  he  nodded  to  himself,  "  is 
about  to  lose  his  enfant;  and  it  isn't  at  all  a  pleasant 
sensation.  .  .  .  It's  like  pups,"  he  grinned.  "  There's 
no  use  trying  to  own  them.  You  get  your  affection  all 
tied  up  and  then  they  die  and  you  have  to  begin  all  over 
with  a  new  lot.  The  thing  to  do  is  to  give  'era  away 
quick  and  forget  'em." 


XII 

MIXED    RENDEZVOUS 

EVERYWHERE  at  the  "party"  Morris  and 
Gorgas  were  naturally  together.  They  made 
such  a  perfect  tennis  team  that  each  got  to 
know  instinctively  what  the  other  was  thinking.  Scraps 
of  private  pass-words  and  codes  flashed  back  and  forth, 
references  to  games  and  experiences  they  had  in  com- 
mon. He  was  always  being  called  upon  to  work  at  set- 
ting up  chairs  or  untying  ribbons  or  fastening  up  a 
fallen  lantern. 

"  Edwin,"  she  would  turn.  "  Take  a  look  at  my  back 
hair,  will  you?  Isn't  that  hair-pin  tumbling  out?  " 

He  would  inspect  critically  and  put  the  offending 
member  into  shape,  like  a  familiar  brother. 

"  Don't  forget  the  bonbons,"  she  would  call  after 
him,  as  he  hurried  about  preparing  things,  like  one  of 
the  family.  "  They're  where  you  put  them  —  on  the 
top  shelf  in  the  pantry,  you  know." 

At  supper  the  cake  was  cut  and  each  candle  blown 
out  with  a  rhymed  wish.  Gorgas  had  arranged  the 
seating  with  Blynn  on  one  side  and  Morris  on  the  other. 
With  Morris  she  squabbled  playfully  like  a  child,  but  to 
Blynn  she  turned  an  impish  womanly  mien. 

"  Take  your  elbows  off  the  table,  Eddie,"  she  pre- 
152 


MIXED  RENDEZVOUS  153 

tended  to  give  little  sisterly  slaps.  "  Where  are  your 
company  manners?  " 

To  Blynn  she  would  turn  the  next  minute,  and  mimic 
a  lady  dining  out. 

"  The  plans  for  this  winter's  opera  are  stupid ;  don't 
you  think?  Nothing  but  Wahgner  —  we're  getting 
our  share  of  Wahgner  —  and  the  old  Fausts  and  Car- 
mens  and  Trovatores.  That  new  opera  of  Puccini  is 
already  stale  in  Vienna,  and  we  haven't  heard  even 
excerpts  in  the  orchestra.  It's  like  a  stage  given  up  to 
continuous  Uncle  Tom's  Cabins." 

Another  time  she  came  at  him  with  the  intonation  of 
a  gushing  old  lady.  "How  witf'r'stingl "  she  beamed 
suddenly  at  one  of  his  remarks  about  the  Academy  ex- 
hibition, a  topic  she  had  forced  on  him.  "  Have  you 
seen  the  Cyclora/nna  of  Gettysburg?  They  say  it  is 
re-silly  thrill-ling.  Quite  the  illusion  of  distance,  you 
know.  One  ought  to  go." 

For  some  unexplainable  reason  Blynn's  humor  failed 
him.  He  tried  to  talk  with  her  on  the  strange  themes 
she  irrelevantly  suggested,  inwardly  registering  his  pro- 
test at  the  changes  of  personality  in  people.  Some  of 
his  best  college  chums  had  grown  into  impossible  young- 
old  men  and  the  liveliest  girls  of  his  teens  frequently  de- 
veloped into  stupid  matrons.  Gorgas,  he  conjectured 
gloomily,  was  losing  all  her  naturalness ;  her  individual 
mind  was  being  moulded  in  the  common  cast. 

He  turned  his  attention  to  Kate.  She  had  not 
changed,  save  in  so  far  as  her  delicate  silk  attire  gave 
her  a  temporary  flavor  of  blue  china  and  tea  roses. 


THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"What  is  the  good  news  out  of  Verona?"  he  in- 
quired. 

"  Petruchio  has  not  yet  arrived,"  she  answered 
promptly. 

"Ah!  You  are  not  shrewish  enough.  Katharina 
had  a  reputation  for  ugliness  of  temper." 

"  Ask  Gorgas,"  she  smiled.  "  She  and  I  have  some 
fearful  fracases  sometimes  —  not  often,  though."  She 
leaned  back  to  get  a  good  view  of  her  sister.  "  Doesn't 
she  look  lovely,  tonight!  It  is  so  droll  to  see  her  in 
my  gown.  I  hope  I  look  as  well  in  it.  The  child  is 
growing  up  fast.  Ah,  me!  She's  my  age-warner.  I 
shall  be  jealous  of  her  soon." 

"I  say,  Allen,"  Diccon  called,  "going  to  take  that 
professorship  at  Holden  ?  " 

"  Why,  how  under  heaven  did  you  know  about  that?  " 
asked  the  astonished  Blynn. 

"  Newspaper,"  said  Diccon.  "  We  know  everything ; 
before  it  happens,  too.  Want  me  to  run  it  in,  front- 
page display  ?  "  he  grinned. 

"  Bless  my  soul !  Please  don't  do  anything  like  that, 
Diccon.  It's  a  small  matter  —  big  for  me,  of  course  — 
but  of  no  public  interest." 

A  general  chorus  forced  him  to  a  more  public  ex- 
planation. Holden  College  had  offered  him  the  chair 
held  by  his  old  professor  of  English.  It  meant  more 
money  —  an  unimportant  matter ;  but,  it  meant  the 
head  of  things,  even  though  they  were  small  things,  and 
the  chance  to  work  under  his  own  lead.  He  had  not 


MIXED  RENDEZVOUS  155 

decided,  although  as  it  stood  now  he  believed  he  would 
not  go.  The  big  university  had  its  own  attraction; 
one  might  meet  an  intolerable  narrowness  in  a  small 
place ;  and  there  were  his  "  children,"  about  whom  he 
felt  more  or  less  responsibility.  To  be  sure,  they  could 
be  taken  care  of. 

"  Go !  "  said  Diccon  with  almost  a  snap.  "  Get  out 
of  this.  You're  just  a  trailer  here.  Never  get  any- 
thing in  your  home  town.  Go  away.  Be  a  mystery. 
They'll  want  you  back  some  day,  when  others  find  out 
you're  worth  wanting.  Band  waiting  for  you,  too. 
My  advice  is  to  clear  out.  That's  what  I  ought  to've 
done  —  long  ago." 

The  company  fell  to  a  discussion  of  why  prophets 
and  professors  were  honored  in  all  cities  save  their  own. 
Under  cover  of  the  general  talk,  Gorgas  tapped  Allen 
on  the  sleeve,  her  characteristic  way  of  getting  his  at- 
tention, and  spoke  in  her  proper  role,  as  old-time 
"  pal." 

"  Does  this  mean  something  for  you,  mon  capitame?  " 

"  I  suppose  it  does,"  he  replied.  "  Somehow  I  don't 
seem  to  have  any  judgment  in  my  own  affairs.  Pru- 
dence tells  me  to  go ;  it  is  an  opportunity ;  but  I  have 
almost  made  up  my  mind  to  plod  along  where  I  am." 

"  Just  what  do  you  mean  by  opportunity  ?  "  she 
asked. 

He  explained.  As  he  talked,  the  really  flattering 
offer  began  to  have  some  meaning  for  him.  It  seemed 
now  as  if  he  had  been  careless  in  letting  the  letter  from 


156  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  President  go  for  three  or  four  days  without  so  much 
as  a  reply.  But  that's  the  way  he  had  always  neglected 
his  personal  advancement. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  to  let  you  go  or  not,"  Gorgas 
speculated.  **  Of  course,  you  would  be  down  Thanks- 
giving and  Christmas  and  Easter  and  vacations  ?  " 

"  Sure  to." 

"  You  might  just  as  well  go,  for  all  I  have  seen  of 
you  lately,"  she  added.  "  Why  did  you  suddenly  give 
me  up  ?  " 

"  I  think  you  have  hit  upon  the  one  reason  that  made 
me  think  of  declining  the  Holden  offer,"  he  was  think- 
ing hard  and  did  not  seem  to  have  heard  her  question. 
"  I'm  lazy,  I  suppose ;  I  hate  to  make  changes.  Holden 
would  mean  boarding  and  no  real  home.  It  would  mean 
giving  up  a  mighty  pleasant  work  here  and  a  lot  of  good 
fellows,"  looking  about  the  table. 

Her  question  seemed  to  come  slowly  to  the  front  of 
his  mind.  He  would  have  made  some  sort  of  rejoinder, 
but  she  was  at  the  moment  scolding  Morris,  who  was 
pretending  to  eat  ice  cream  from  a  knife. 

They  were  rising  and  breaking  up  before  she  spoke 
to  him  again. 

"  Don't  forget,  mon  capitaine,"  she  plucked  hii 
sleeve.  "  You  are  to  stay  after  the  others." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  his  face  lighted  up.  "  Count  on  me.  .  .  . 
It  will  be  like  old  times." 

"  How  frightfully  time  flies,"  she  reverted  suddenly 
to  a  burlesque  of  the  bored  lady-out-to-dinner.  "  Why 
it  seems  only  yestehdee  that  we  wuh  children  togetheh." 


MIXED  RENDEZVOUS  157 

Like  a  belated  jest  he  began  to  see  through  her 
strange  airs.  "  I've  been  frightfully  stupid  tonight," 
he  admitted.  "  Some  of  your  fooling  was  too  delicate 
for  me ;  it  got  completely  by  — " 

"  I'm  simply  living  up  to  my  gown,  sir, —  in  spots." 

His  rather  old-young  face  looked  its  honest  admira- 
tion. 

"  What's  that  thing-em-bob  on  your  —  oh !  Do  you 
belong  to  a  sorority?  Why,  bless  my  soul !  It's  a  fra- 
ternity pin  —  eh?  remade  into  a  brooch.  .  .  .  Whose 
is  it?" 

"  Edwin's ;  he  had  it  done  for  my  birthday ;  nifty, 
isn't  it?  ...  You  didn't  give  me  anything,  miser." 

"  Little  girls  shouldn't  w«ar  men's  fraternity  pins," 
he  scolded  gently. 

"  Oui,  mon  pere." 

"  '  Mon  pere  ' —  ugh !  That's  wicked  of  you,  to  re- 
mind me  of  my  years.  .  .  .  But  you  know  about  the 
custom,  don't  you?  " 

"  Tell  me." 

"  Oh,  perhaps  it  doesn't  always  count.  In  my  *  frat ' 
it's  a  pretty  serious  crime,  punishable  by  drinking  a 
quart  of  quashia-water,  to  give  your  emblem  to  anyone 
but  the  lady.  It's  the  old,  ancient  '  token  '  over  again ; 
love  is  blind  and  lovers  are  dumb ;  the  token  given  and 
the  token  received  is  the  time-honored  language  of  a 
contract  begun.  .  .  .  But  there !  That's  all  nonsense. 
...  Of  course,  you  can  wear  it  without  any  signifi- 
cance at  all.  You're  hardly  old  enough  to  contemplate 
an  engagement." 


158  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Don't  you  be  too  sure,  Mr.  Professor,"  she  hummed 
wisely  as  she  strolled  away  to  bid  farewell  to  her  guests. 

Edwin  was  sauntering  by.  She  whistled  a  private 
signal  which  brought  him  swiftly  about  with  an  "  Aye ! 
aye !  sir ! "  "  Don't  forget,  you're  to  stay  till  the  rest 
have  gone,"  she  whispered  quite  audibly. 

"  Not  your  Uncle  Dudley,"  Edwin  responded  cheerily. 

Kate  seemed  to  know  that  Blynn  would  remain  later, 
for  she  piloted  him  to  the  library  as  a  matter  of  course. 
Mr.  and  Mrs.  Levering  were  reading  in  the  alcove  in 
the  far  end  of  the  big  room. 

"  Let's  *  owl,'  "  she  suggested.  *'  Owl  "  was  the  fam- 
ily name  for  the  family  habit  of  staying  up  late. 
"  Let's  '  owl '  and  talk.  I'm  broad  awake.  What  kind 
of  chairs  did  they  have,  mother,  in  '61?  I  have  the 
hardest  time  finding  one  that  fits  the  hoop." 

She  tried  several  chairs  prettily.  Certainly  that 
style  of  apparel  increased  the  helplessness  of  women, 
usually  a  beauty  asset. 

"  Come  over  here,  child,"  called  the  mother,  "  and 
I'll  show  you  a  trick." 

The  trick  consisted  in  slyly  slipping  out  of  the  hoops 
—  a  kind  of  detachable  understructure  —  and  leaving 
them  in  the  alcove. 

While  he  waited,  Blynn  could  hear  little  contagious, 
intimate  laughters  from  the  lawn.  Gorgas  and  Morris 
were  helping  McAlley  extinguish  the  Chinese  lanterns 
and,  youthlike,  were  taking  their  time  about  it. 

"I'm  the  decoy,"  thought  Allen,  rubbing  one  palm 


MIXED  RENDEZVOUS  159 

along  the  side  of  the  face.  "  Oh,  these  children  1  They 
fascinate  me  with  their  nimble  intelligence  and  their 
mysterious  changes.  It's  a  great  business,  dealing  in 
children.  They  give  one  an  enormous  amount  of  joy  — 
I  fancy  it's  the  best  thing  I  do,  after  all ;  but  they  set 
me  hungering  for  a  pack  of  my  own  that  won't  desert 
me  when  I've  given  them  all  my  toys  to  play  with.  .  .  . 
I  believe  that  little  minx  was  flirting  with  both  of  us 
tonight.  Trying  out  her  new  wings !  The  gown  made 
her  conscious  of  things.  Ah,  well,"  he  yawned.  .  .  . 
"  Hello !  What  did  you  do  with  the  flare-bellows?  " 

Kate  trailed  in  with  a  large  quantity  of  subdued  skirt. 

"  I  took  the  machinery  out.  .  .  .  Now !  I  can  sit 
comfortably  at  last.  Oh!  I'm  tired." 

She  dropped  among  a  lot  of  cushions  in  front  of  him. 

"Any  more  interesting  Elizabethan  theories?"  she 
began. 

"  Plenty,"  he  replied.  "  At  present  I  am  interested 
in  Elizabethan  devils." 

"  Tell  me  about  them." 

"  Well,"  he  hesitated,  and  then  went  on,  j  ust  like  a 
professor !  "  King  James  claimed  that  flying  devils 
tried  to  upset  his  boat  in  the  North  Sea,  and  he  per- 
sonally attended  the  trial  of  a  lot  of  old  bedlams,  who 
confessed  and  were  burned.  But  in  some  old  docu- 
ments in  the  University  I  have  found  something  even 
more  exciting.  One  of  the  genuinely  thrilling  things 
that  I've  come  across  is  Dr.  Dee's  diary,  scribbled  on 
the  margins  of  old  almanacs.  He  was  an  astrologer, 
alchemist,  mathematician,  spiritualist,  physician,  in 


160  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

other  words,  a  16th  century  scientist.  Elizabeth  con- 
sulted him  for  propitious  days;  that  is,  she  had  her 
fortune  told." 

Kate  snuggled  up  to  listen.  He  went  on  thought- 
fully. 

"  Dee  records  his  cases.  Susan  G.  came  to  see  him 
about  her  devil.  He  tries  to  exorcise  it  by  the  laying 
on  of  hands  and  much  imperative  Latin.  Then  she 
goes  away  relieved.  A  servant  in  the  house  has  an  in- 
corrigible evil  spirit.  There  is  much  praying  over  her 
case  and  a  deal  of  incantation  without  permanent  cure. 
One  day  she  slips  by  him  on  the  stairs.  His  profes- 
sional eye  has  seen  symptoms  of  the  inward  struggle 
between  imp  and  human.  He  follows  quickly.  She 
slides  behind  a  door  at  the  bottom  of  the  stair.  He 
hears  a  gurgling  sound  and  the  fall  of  a  heavy  body. 
Behind  the  door  lies  the  poor  maid.  The  devil  had 
tempted  her  to  cut  her  throat,  he  says,  so  that  she  could 
die  in  sin  and  be  his  in  aeternum." 

"  I  suppose  you  believe  in  the  Elizabethan  devil  ?  " 

"  Doesn't  everybody  ?  We're  coming  back  to  witches 
and  devils.  The  Psychological  Research  Society  is 
only  19th  century  for  Dr.  Dee ;  and  what  with  telepathic 
influence  urging  to  crime,  and  multiple  personalities,  I 
don't  see  anything  in  Elizabethan  so-called  superstition 
that  we  moderns  haven't  improved  upon." 

"  So  love  is  a  contagious  disease,"  Kate  ruminated, 
"  and  most  of  us  are  possessed  of  devils.  Charming 
thoughts !  At  that  rate,  one  might  marry  a  devil." 

"  Many  do,"  he  laughed. 


"/  am  loafing  my  Life  away" 


MIXED  RENDEZVOUS  161 

"  The  devil  might  have  me,"  she  mused,  "  if  he  came 
in  some  guises." 

"You  think  you're  joking,  but  you're  not,"  he  came 
back  in  his  characteristic  bluntness.  "  Beatrice  jested 
in  exactly  the  same  tone.  *  I  may  sit  in  a  corner,'  she 
sighed,  *  arid  cry  heigh-ho  for  a  husband ! ' —  but  gave 
herself  mightily  away  then.  And  do  you  remember 
Margaret's  reply  ?  *  Methinks  you  look  with  your  eyes 
as  other  women  do,'  said  she.  Now  you,  Miss  Levering, 
you  want  to  marry ;  of  course,  you  do.  It's  as  natural 
a  desire  as  hunger.  '  You  look  with  your  eyes  as  other 
women  do.'  Millions  of  women  feel  exactly  as  you  do ; 
and,  alack,  millions  for  some  confounded  civilized  rea- 
son don't  get  the  chance;  or  they  won't  take  a  chance 
when  they  get  one.  If  I  were  you  I'd  learn  to  do  some- 
thing —  fill  your  mind  with  an  absorbing  occupation, 
basket  weaving,  rug  making,  study,  writing  —  some- 
thing; act  as  if  you  were  never  to  catch  the  infection, 
or  whatever  it  is.  ...  That's  what  I'm  doing.  .  .  . 
Why  don't  you  be  a  librarian  ?  " 

"  You  are  the  frankest  man  I  know,"  she  spoke  after 
a  moment's  contemplation  of  his  earnest  face.  "  I  be- 
lieve you  are  right.  ...  I  am  loafing  my  life  away. 
And  I'm  useless  as  — "  she  shut  her  lips  together  firmly. 
Tears  glistened  in  the  lamp-light. 

He  leaned  forward  with  great  brotherly  sympathy. 

"  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt  — " 

"Oh,  no!  no!  no!  You?  You  hurt?  My  dear, 
dear  man !  You  haven't  the  power  to  hurt  —  you  are 
so  transparent  and  sincere.  It's  • —  it's  the  devil  in  me, 


162  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

I  suppose,"  she  laughed  nervously,  "  that  did  the  stab- 
bing. .  .  .  But  what  is  a  woman  to  do?  Sit  and  wait 
for  some  accidental  man  to  give  her  the  only  thing  she 
has  been  made  fit  for?  I  wish  I  did  have  a  job.  But, 
lordy !  wouldn't  there  be  a  roar  if  I  hired  out !  Father 
Levering  would  have  a  stroke ! " 

She  dabbed  her  eyes  with  a  handkerchief. 

"  Let's  go  out  in  the  air,"  she  suggested. 

The  lanterns  had  been  extinguished,  but  in  the  Sep- 
tember starlight  the  wide  lawn  was  awake  and  glowing. 
There  they  talked  familiarly  until  the  Seminary  tower 
spoke  a  heavy  "  one." 

Kate  had  unburdened,  as  women  and  children  did  to 
Blynn;  and  he  had  filled  her  with  good,  courageous 
thinking,  his  native  gift.  They  seemed  infinitely  ac- 
quainted as  they  approached  the  cosy  light  of  the 
library ;  and  Kate  was  happy  again.  Her  little  laugh 
punctuated  the  conversation  often. 

Gorgas?  Where  had  she  gone?  Blynn  made  a 
futile  search.  Ah,  children !  children !  he  thought 
grimly ;  the  subtle  September  night  had  taken  them  off. 
He  tried  the  bower  at  the  end  of  the  orchard,  whistling 
first,  as  a  precaution  —  Blynn  was  a  good  sports- 
man—  but  she  was  not  on  the  grounds,  nor  in  the 
house. 

McAlley,  with  his  lantern,  came  sleepily  out  into  the 
light  of  the  path. 

"Mr.  Blynn,"  he  beckoned;  and  then  in  great 
secrecy,  "  Gorgas  —  she's  went  to  bed.  She  gives  me 
this  letter  for  you.  Faith!  It's  a  cat-nap  I've  been 


MIXED  RENDEZVOUS  163 

takin',  and  almost  forgot  it  all.  .  .  .  Good  night,  Mr. 
Blynn." 

"  Good  night,  Mac." 

The  little  note  said: 

Mon  Capitaine: 

I  waited  for  you  ever  so  long,  and  then  I  peeked  in  at 
you,  but  you  seemed  so  happy  with  Kate  that  I  just 
Avaited  a  little  longer  and  then  went  trotting  off  to 
sleep.  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you.  Edwin  plays  in  the 
finals  at  Haverford,  Wednesday.  Come  and  take  me, 
please  do.  You're  to  get  your  own  luncheon.  We 
start  promptly  at  twelve,  because  Mac  is  going  to  drive 
us  over.  We  can  watch  the  game  from  the  carriage. 
Edwin  will  get  the  Club  to  serve  tea.  I've  seen  Bardek 
again.  And  I'm  to  have  an  exhibit  at  the  Art  School. 
Comme  ton  jours  toute  a  tot, 

G. 

P.  S's.  1.  Mother  says  I  may  go  if  you  take  me. 
She  won't  listen  to  anybody  else  going  along. 

2.  I  gave  Edwin  back  his  f rat.  pin  temp  —  would 
say  temperarilly  if  I  could  spell  it. 

3.  Kate  looked  happy,  too.     Wouldn't  that  be  fine!! 

"  The  little  matchmaker ! "  he  chuckled  at  the  stars ; 
"  concocted  the  rendezvous  and  all.  .  .  .  It's  young 
Bianca  getting  the  elder  Katherina  out  of  the  way, 
again!  .  .  .  Shrewd!  .  .  .  And  her  whole-hearted  un- 
selfish self,  too.  .  .  .  Well,  I  feel  decidedly  better. 
Morris  —  dandy  chap,  clean,  straight  sort.  I  know 


164  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

'em ;  true  as  — "  His  mind  trailed  off  in  search  of  a 
strong  comparison.  "  Indecision  is  the  vice  of  life." 
He  walked  briskly  and  tried  to  shake  off  uncomfortable 
thoughts.  "  It's  fine  to  have  things  settled.  .  .  .  Oh, 
the  luxurious  sensation  of  a  mind  finally  made  up ! " 
But  he  walked  with  a  long  stride,  his  hands  thrust  deep 
into  pockets;  and  his  eyes  were  staring  ahead  as  if 
trying  to  pluck  a  new  decision  out  of  the  darkness. 


XIII 

TOPIC    NUMBER    FOUR 

WHERE  are  the  landaus  and  barouches  of  yes- 
teryear, overpowering  symbols  of  upper 
caste?  Gone  with  the  calash,  the  chaise, 
the  coach  and  the  cabriolet.  The  formal  vehicle  of 
the  Leverings  was  called  "  the  carriage  "  to  distinguish 
it  from  the  informal  surrey.  The  "  carriage  "  was  al- 
ways driven  by  Mac,  who  donned  for  the  purpose  a 
special  outfit  —  Mr.  Levering's  minim  of  Quaker  blood 
balked  at  anything  suggesting  livery  —  aimed  to  indi- 
cate that  Mac  was  j  ust  a  remove  and  a  half  from  mem- 
bership in  the  family.  Mac's  name  for  them  was  "  his 
blacks,"  which  the  Leverings  adopted  as  a  private  code. 

"  Oh,  Mac  1 "  Kate  would  haloo  from  the  rear  porch. 
"'Blacks'  at  three." 

"  'Right,  Mis'  Lev'ring."  Mac  would  quite  compre- 
hend that  a  call  or  a  drive  was  on  the  program  for  the 
afternoon. 

On  the  drive  to  Haverford,  Mac  was  resplendent  in 
new  "  blacks  " ;  his  white  linen  ascot  shone  beatifically 
from  its  dark  setting,  and  his  new  square-blocked  hat 
had  a  small  cockade  at  the  side  —  clearly  contraband 
that  had  escaped  the  eye  of  Father  Levering.  The 

carriage  was  eloquent  of  labor. 

165 


166  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Blynn  remarked  the  added  note  of  luxury. 

"  We  just  had  to  smart  up  a  bit,"  explained  Gorgas. 
"  We  can't  look  shabby  and  have  those  *  main-liners ' 
elevating  lorgnettes  at  us  all  the  afternoon.  .  .  .  Oh, 
I've  been  preparing  for  this  for  months,  getting  a  little 
new  harness  here  and  there,  and  some  fresh  paint,  and 
working  Dad  for  new  '  blacks '  for  Mac.  This  is  the 
first  time  I  put  them  all  together.  Ain't  we  stylish? 
.  .  .  Come,  get  in;  we  must  make  the  most  of  every 
minute  — " 

"But  aren't  we  frightfully  early?  The  games 
aren't  until  four  o'clock,  I  understand,"  Blynn  stood 
stupidly  contemplating  his  watch. 

"  In,  mon  capitaine! "  she  commanded,  "  before 
mother  changes  her  mind  and  sends  Kate  along.  .  .  . 
Do  exactly  what  you're  told.  I'm  Pippa  today," 
parodying,  "  This  is  my  one  holiday  in  the  whole  year ! 
.  .  .  We're  off,  Mac;  Cresheim,  you  know." 

"  I  ought  to  have  worn  my  store  clothes,"  Blynn  re- 
marked ruefully.  "  This  is  awful  grand.  .  .  .  Ought 
to  have  been  a  band  playing  as  we  started  off,  flags 
waving,  whistles  blowing — ' 

"  Hush !  "  she  plucked  his  arm  eagerly.  "  Don't  let's 
waste  time.  I  have  so  much  to  tell  you." 

"  Well,"  he  looked  at  her  in  his  old  role  of  father- 
confessor,  "  what  has  the  naughty  child  been  doing 
lately?" 

"  First,  this  is  the  longest  skirt  I  ever  owned."  She 
kicked  out  and  showed  just  an  inch  or  two  above  her 
high  shoe-tops.  "  We  had  a  big  row  over  it.  Kate 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  167 

says  I'm  rushing  things  too  fast ;  want  to  be  old  before 
my  time.  Mother  says  the  neighborhood  wouldn't  hear 
of  long  skirts  and  hair  completely  up.  I  say,  I'm  as 
old  as  I  dress.  Nobody  looks  37ou  up  in  the  Bible  as 
you  walk  along  the  street.  I  don't  wear  '  1874  Sep- 
tember 10th '  on  my  forehead.  And  as  for  the  neigh- 
bors — "  she  laughed.  "  Do  you  remember  how  Bardek 
bristled  once  when  you  spoke  about  something  being 
all  right,  but  dangerous  because  contrary  to  public 
opinion  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  want  to  know,"  he  interrupted ;  "  you  say 
you've  seen  Bardek." 

"  We  haven't  reached  that  topic  yet,  Mr.  Professor ;  " 
she  settled  back  comfortably.  "  That's  a  subject  we 
shall  take  up  later  in  the  course.  At  present,  we  are 
discussing  clothes.  You  got  me  this  long  dress. 
Thank  you." 

"I?     Pray,  how?" 

"  I  put  it  to  mother  how  you  would  feel  taking  care 
of  a  child  all  day.  They  had  me  all  planned  for  a 
dotted  Swiss,  pink  sash,  and  a  floppy  leghorn  —  ugh ! 
and  my  hair  down  like  Alice  in  Wonderland's !  .  .  .  So, 
I  stormed  and  used  you  for  argument.  Quoted  you, 
too  —  things  you  would  have  said,  if  —  if  you  had  said 
'em.  I  pictured  the  thing;  made  them  see  us  walking 
hand-in-hand,  before  all  that  Main-line  crowd,  Father 
Rollo  and  daughter  Rollo  —  me  lost  in  that  leghorn ! 
Well,  they  compromised  on  this." 

"  You  did  it  mighty  quick,"  he  remarked  thought- 
fully. His  eye  took  in  the  satisfying  effect  of  the  close- 


166  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

fitting  silk  "  basque,"  with  its  soft,  flaring  sleeves  droop- 
ing in  mysterious  folds  from  the  shoulders,  and  the 
oldish  dark  hat  with  its  snug  cluster  of  blood-red  roses. 

"  One  whole  month,"  she  told  him.  "  The  dress- 
maker comes  only  on  Mondays,  you  know." 

"A  month?  "  He  was  puzzled.  "You  didn't  know 
I  was  coming  with  you  a  month  ago  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  did,  mon  capitaine"  she  chuckled.  "  You 
were  all  planned,  too." 

"Bless  my  soul!"  he  ejaculated. 

"  Topic  number  two,"  she  announced,  "  is  Holden. 
Of  course,  you  are  going  to  take  that  professorship?  " 

"  No !  "  he  spoke  sharply.  "  I  can't  possibly  do  it. 
The  fact  is  —  well,  I'll  tell  you  —  Diccon  got  it  for 
me.  He's  a  member  of  the  trustees.  I  didn't  know 
that.  He  just  pulled  for  me  —  awfully  fine  of  him; 
but  he  used  the  bludgeon  of  newspaper  power  and  every 
trick  he  could  lay  hold  of.  There  was  an  immense  com- 
petition —  I  didn't  know  that,  either  —  and  he  won 
out  by  a  big  majority,  against  the  President's  candi- 
date, too.  I  wormed  it  out  of  him.  He  says  it's  all 
right  —  says  that's  the  way  it's  done.  .  .  .  Says  he'll 
make  me  President  next.  .  .  .  Gross!  .  .  .  And  I 
thought  they  had  read  my  little  studies  —  Pooh! 
There's  something  humiliating  in  that  sort  of  thing  — 
even  if  it  is  customary.  I  told  Diccon  I  couldn't  take 
it." 

"What  did  he  say  to  that?" 

"  He  said,  '  Think  it  over.'  I  have  thought  it  over. 
It's  no  use." 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  169 

'*  I  agree  with  Diccon,"  she  spoke  firmly.  "  You 
ought  to  go.  You  must  take  things  the  way  they're 
given.  I  got  this  dress  by  arguing  the  family  out  of 
their  best  judgment.  I  fibbed  a  little  and  put  up  an 
artificial  storm  —  pure  dramatics,  every  bit  of  it  — 
all  the  time  I  was  thinking  how  nice  a  chocolate  soda 
water  would  taste  —  I  just  bulldozed  them  into  giving 
in.  I  asked  for  more  than  I  possibly  could  get  and  got 
what  I  really  wanted.  You're  too  —  too  poetic.  My 
advice  is  to  go  to  Holden  and  be  somebody.  The  other 
fellows  were  playing  the  same  game  —  don't  forget 
that !  —  and  they  lost.  Oh,  it  was  not  ideal,  but  it  was 
perfectly  fair.  Your  friends  had  the  stronger  pull, 
that's  all." 

"  I  abominate  £  pull,'  "  he  muttered,  "  all  I've  ever  — " 

She  put  a  hand  squarely  across  his  lips  and  held  it 
there. 

"  Hush !  "  she  warned.  "  That  topic  is  overboard, 
for  the  present.  Let's  be  happy  on  this  '  one  holiday 
ot  the  whole  year.'  "  She  rolled  her  eyes,  like  an  in- 
genuous Pippa.  "  Topic  number  three  is  very  near. 
I  can  hear  it."  She  raised  her  hand  to  make  a  funnel 
of  it.  "  Hoo-eeee !  "  she  called  across  the  ravine. 

"  Hoo-eee ! "  came  a  familiar  bass,  followed  by  a 
crashing  of  bushes.  Mac  stopped  as  if  on  signal. 

"  Grtiss  Gott!  Herr  Professor!  "  he  greeted  Blynn ; 
**  H'lo,  Mac ! "  he  dropped  into  colloquial  English  for 
the  driver;  but  nothing  but  French  would  do  for  the 
lady,  "  Jolie  a  croquer,  la  petite  gosse!  " 

Bardek,  round-faced  and  smiling,  held  out  gripping 


170  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

hands  to  all  three.  As  if  it  had  been  arranged  he  clam- 
bered into  the  carriage  and  drove  on  with  them. 

"  How  fine  it  is  to  see  you  I "  he  looked  affectionately 
at  Blynn.  "  This  is  not  a  good  French  day  —  only 
half  and  half,"  he  swept  the  sky  critically,  "  or  I  would 
kiss  you  on  both  cheek.  Ha !  How  you  would  jump ! 
Oh,  but  you  are  so  cold  in  America!  You  shake  the 
hand,  sometimes  —  good !  —  but  you  miss  much  warmth, 
much  flow  of  blood.  The  love  of  man  for  woman,  you 
have  so !  so ! "  a  shrug  that  showed  our  lack  even  there, 
"  but  the  love  of  man  for  man  you  have  not  at  all  —  a 
great  thing." 

"  Bardek,"  Gorgas  broke  in,  "  I  will  not  have  you 
making  speeches  all  over  the  place.  You  — ' 

"  In  Bohemia,"  he  went  joyfully  on,  waving  an  apolo- 
getic hand  at  the  interrupter,  "we  embrace  and  kiss 
and  have  hot  feelings.  Here,  you  bow  or  say,  '  H'lo  ' 
or  '  So  long,  ol'  man.'  Ach !  We  are  flesh  and  blood. 
We  were  made  to  tingle  when  we  touch.  You  don't  half 
love  what  you  don't  touch.  I  keep  my  hands  off  this 
little  missy  —  she  would  not  let  me  smooth  her  and  pat 
her;  she  jump  so!  And  you,  Miester  Bleen — la!  la! 
la!  la !  —  if  I  hold  you  in  my  arms  —  or  the  good  Mac 
there,  who  I  love,  too  —  and  kiss  you  on  the  ears  and 
on  the  head!  Cr-r-azy!  What  you  say?  Nut-ty! 
To  ze  Blockley  Assylumm,  queek !  Before  he  run  about 
and  bite  somebody  else.  Eh?  It  is  so,  is  it  not?  " 

"  I  often  feel  like  that,"  Blynn  confessed,  "  with 
men,  I  mean." 

"  Of   course,   you   do,"   Bardek   arched   his   brows. 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  171 

"  You  are  human  being  wit'  nerves,"  he  said  "  ner-r-uf  s  " 
— "  and  you  have  gr-reat  power  of  affection  bottled  up, 
corked,  inside  of  you.  But,  you  are  ashamed,  eh?  to 
show  it  ?  " 

"  Undoubtedly,  quite  ashamed.  I  often  want  to 
throw  my  arms  over  a  good  man  friend  —  like  Leopold, 
for  instance  —  but  —  I'd  die  first." 

"  There ! "  he  turned  to  Gorgas.  "  He  would  die  for 
that !  For  a  little  not'ing  peoples  die.  In  Turkey  the 
lady  would  die  if  she  show  the  lip ;  in  America,  the  lady 
would  die  if  she  show  the  foot ;  in  Paris,  the  lady  would 
die  if  she  not  show  the  foot.  In  England,  the  lady  and 
the  man  sneak  away  quiet  and  take  the  baths  in  boxes 
in  the  ocean;  in  America  they  dance  together  in  the 
water  and  show  the  ladies  how  to  float,  so !  And,  oh ! 
so  little  clothes.  Poof!  Bah!  I  would  die  but  for 
only  one  thing  —  when  I  cannot  longer  get  a  good 
breath!  All  else  is  jus'  foolishness.  I — " 

"  Bardek,"  interrupted  Gorgas,  "  if  you  talk  any 
longer  I'll  turn  you  over  to  the  police  as  a  public  nui- 
sance." 

"  See !  "  he  cried.  "  How  queek  I  be  still.  Me  voila! 
Silencieux  comme  une  carpe  —  still  like  fish !  " 

"  This  is  strictly  business,  Mr.  Blynn.  Bardek  has 
been  helping  me  with  my  exhibition  at  the  Applied 
Arts  — " 

"  And  it  is  won-derful,  her  work.  I  —  ach !  That 
is  one  thing  I  die  for,  if  they  pass  law  to  make  me  to 
shut  up." 

"  They're  going  to  give  me  a  special  exhibition  — 


112  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

*  One-man  Show,'  they  call  it.  Bardek  came  back  in 
August,  and  we've  been  working  together  in  my  smithy 
—  the  old  spring-house,  you  know.  I  couldn't  go  down 
the  Valley  any  longer ;  it  wouldn't  look  right  — " 

"  Nom  d'une  pipe!  "  he  blurted.  "  The  land  of  lib- 
erty. Bah!  .  .  .  Excuse!  —  Ton  jours  sttencieux!  " 

"  So,  we  worked  him  in  as  a  friend  of  Mac's.  Dad 
actually  hired  him  once  to  whitewash  the  palings ! "  she 
chuckled  merrily  at  the  thought,  as  did  Bardek. 

"  Me !  Whitewashes !  Oop !  "  he  clapped  his  hand 
across  his  ready  mouth. 

"  Now  I  have  a  plan.  Bardek  is  to  take  that  little 
house  back  of  us." 

"  TaJce? "  asked  Bardek.  "  How  do  you  take 
house?  " 

She  shook  a  warning  finger. 

"  The  little  white  cottage,  with  the  garden.  You 
own  it;  don't  you?  It  is  never  rented.  Well,  Bardek 
is  to  live  there,  and  do  copper  work.  You  come  to 
see  Mother  Levering  and  pump  her  full  of  Bardek  and 
have  him  hired  for  a  teacher  —  to  get  ready  for  the 
exposition,  you  know.  Say  anything;  make  up  some- 
thing. Mother  believes  anything  you  tell  her." 

"  Wait!  "  exploded  Bardek.  "  Please  give  me  to 
speak.  I  to  live  in  a  house?  W'ite  house  wit' garden ? 
and  plumbing?  and  window  sashes?  and  tables  and 
chairs?  and  doors?  " 

To  each  article  of  the  inventory  Gorgas  nodded. 

"  For  me,"  she  added.     "  All  for  me." 

He  turned  energetically  to  Blynn.     "  I  make  mis- 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  173 

take.  There  is  one  other  t'ing  I  die  for  —  to  live  like 
chicken  in  a  house.  .  .  ."  He  looked  at  her  curiously. 
"  Nom  d'une  pipe!  "  he  speculated.  "  I  see  I  am  going 
to  do  that  t'ing.  .  .  .  Nom  du  nom  d'une  pipe!  I  am 
going  to  live  in  a  house !  Wah ! "  he  laughed  aloud, 
head  thrown  back.  "  You  do  not  know  w'at  you  ask. 
And  I  do  not  know  w'at  I  do.  I  swear,  ten,  fifteen  year 
ago,  I  take  big  oath  that  I  nevair  again  live  in  house  — 
some  day  I  tell  you  zat  story  —  and  now,"  he  recovered 
and  looked  at  Gorgas  solemnly,  "  I  do  t'at  t'ing.  .  .  . 
All  ri' —  for  you !  Good !  Bury  mo  in  your  w'ite 
house.  .  .  .  Nom  du  nom  du  nom  d'une  pipe!  " 

"  That's  settled,"  she  turned  now  to  Blynn.  "  We 
think  twelve  dollars  a  month  is  a  good  price  for  the 
cottage  —  especially  since  you  haven't  rented  it  for 
ever  so  long.  Mac  will  get  it  put  in  good  shape  for 
you.  Is  it  a  go  ?  .  .  .  For  me !  " 

"  Take  it  for  nothing,"  said  Blynn. 

"  Well,  we'll  call  it  eight  dollars,  then,"  she  resumed. 

"  Ho !  "  cried  Bardek,  highly  amused.  *'  She  is  good 
at  the  bargain.  In  my  country  the  woman  get  every- 
thing cheap." 

"  Here's  where  you  get  out,  Bardek." 

"  Ach,  so  soon !  Well,  I  get  in,  I  go  housekeeping,  I 
get  out  —  comme  tu  voudras,  mon  enfant.  Some  day, 
she  say,  '  Bardek,  go  jump  in  Schuylkill  river,  please,' 
and  I  say,  '  Yes,  miss,  jus'  please  wait  till  I  put  on  my 
coat.'  .  .  .  Goodby,  Mr.  Blynn ;  Goodby,  ol*  Mac ; 
adieu,  Madam  Pompadour,  who  make  kings  of  the  earth 
go  live  in  little  w'ite  closets.  Adieu!  " 


174  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Farewells  were  waved  until  Bardek  could  be  seen  no 
longer. 

"  Topic  number  four,"  she  took  up  the  next  part  of 
her  program  abruptly.  "  I'm  not  going  to  let  you 
drop  me,  Allen  Blynn.  ...  I  just  won't  stand  it." 

She  spoke  hurriedly  and  nervously.  Allen  Blynn 
was  quite  taken  by  surprise. 

"  It  isn't  fair.  You  said  you  would  take  charge  of 
me,  my  education,  I  mean ;  you  told  mother  you  would ; 
everybody  thought  so,  too;  and  then,  you  just  — 
walked  out.  .  .  .  For  the  last  year  I've  seen  you  only 
once  or  twice  on  the  streets,  and  you're  always  rushing 
somewhere.  .  .  .  What  have  I  done?  .  .  .  We've  got 
to  settle  this  thing  right  here  and  now.  I've  been  think- 
ing and  thinking  and  I  can't  make  it  out.  You  just 
avoid  me  as  if  I  weren't  fit  to  — "  the  storm  began  to 
subside.  "Of  course,  I  don't  mean  that.  But  why 
can't  we  be  good  pals,  like  we  were?  Why  not,  mon 
capitaine?  " 

The  abruptness  of  the  thing  almost  overwhelmed  him. 
The  contrast  between  her  gaiety  in  dealing  with  Bardek 
and  the  almost  bitter  seriousness  of  the  present  mood 
was  a  shock. 

His  excuses  she  listened  to  without  a  word  of  inter- 
ruption. He  began  by  showing  that  when  he  found 
schools  for  her  his  business  as  educational  agent  was  at 
an  end.  Then  his  university  teaching,  his  studying,  his 
writings,  and  the  care  of  his  little  charges,  who  could 
not  always  go  to  expensive  schools,  all  that  had  ab- 
sorbed him.  Besides,  the  old  group  had  broken  up  of 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  175 

its  own  accord  —  one  of  those  accidental,  unplanned 
things  that  happen.  His  year  in  Germany,  too,  had 
made  an  unlocked  for  break.  There  he  ended. 

"  When  you  were  in  Germany,"  she  spoke  with  great 
deliberation,  "  I  wrote  to  you.  Didn't  you  get  the  let- 
ter? " 

"  Why,  yes  —  to  be  sure,  I  did.  Of  course,  I  did  — 
eh  —  Didn't  I  answer  it?" 

"  You  know  you  did  not." 

He  knew,  and  showed  it  painfully. 

"  Why?  "  she  kept  to  the  point. 

He  couldn't  exactly  say;  he  was  always  careless; 
wretched  personal  habits  he  had. 

"  I  am  asking  you  a  question.  Why  did  you  not 
answer  my  letter?  " 

"  Oh,  how  can  I  tell  you,  Gorgas,"  he  writhed,  but 
she  was  merciless. 

"  That's  what  I  intend  to  find  out.  It's  got  to  be 
settled  right  now  —  this  whole  business." 

"  Very  well,"  he  concluded.  "  I'll  try  to  tell  you. 
Your  letter  was  all  right  — " 

"  No,  it  wasn't.  It  was  six,  gushing,  gloomy  pages 
of  homesickness  for  you.  I  had  the  blues  awfully.  No- 
body around  the  house  attempts  to  try  to  understand 
me  or  give  me  a  fair  show.  You  came  along  with  a 
whole  new  world  and  called  me  *  pal '  and  let  me  in,  and 
when  you  shipped  off  without  ever  giving  me  a  hint  that 
you  were  going,  I  was  so  flabbergasted  I  sat  down  and 
poured  out.  I  posted  it  that  night  —  in  the  rain  — 
and  cried  the  rest  of  the  night  because  I  had  sent  it. 


176  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

But  I  said,  *  Allen  Blynn  is  the  one  man  on  earth  who 
will  understand  a  lonely  child.'  .  .  .  But,  it  seems  you 
didn't.  .  .  .  Can't  you  realize  the  —  the  —  agony  of 
every  day  that  brought  —  nothing?  If  you  had 
scolded  me  or  something,  I  should  have  felt  all  right. 
But  you  just  —  shut  up." 

She  stared  ahead  of  her  in  blurred  indignation.  The 
little,  blood-red  roses  on  her  hat  were  trembling.  He 
could  see  that  she  was  striving  to  control  her  excited 
breathing. 

"  Little  girl,"  he  spoke  kindly,  "  that  was  a  great 
blunder  of  mine.  To  think  that  I  hurt  you  —  is  almost 
unbearable.  ...  I  thought  I  understood  children,  but, 
bless  my  soul !  —  I  don't  know  the  beginnings.  Let  me 
tell  you  something.  I  am  quite  sure  that  every  time  I 
got  hold  of  a  pen  or  pencil,  even  to  write  so  much  as  a 
postal  card,  I  thought  of  your  letter  and  wondered 
what  I  should  do.  I  couldn't  decide.  Several  times  I 
planned  letters  to  you — " 

"Honest!     You  really  did?"  she  gasped. 

"  Yes,  indeed.  But,  you  see,  I  didn't  at  all  under- 
stand your  letter.  I've  received  loads  of  letters  from 
children,  but  this  one  —  why,  child,  it  was  —  oh,  now 
that  I  understand  your  *  blues '  and  all  that  sort  of 
thing,  it's  clear  enough.  But,  you  see,  this  was  too  — 
too  — " 

"  Go  on,"  she  spoke  determinedly ;  "  it  was  !  I  meant 
it  to  be!" 

He  made  up  his  mind  to  speak  plainly  to  her. 

"  You  were  a  little  child,"  he  began. 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  177 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  forever  harp  on  *  child.'  I 
was  no  child.  I  was  fifteen  years  old,  and  knew  exactly 
what  I  was  about.  If  I  had  been  a  fifteen-year-old 
puppy  you'd  have  given  me  credit  for  something." 

"That's  just  the  point  —  the  only  point;  you  were 
not  a  puppy,  but  a  girl-child  of  fifteen,  writing  a  very 
sentimental  letter  to  a  man  of  twenty-five.  The  rules 
of  the  game  are  very  clear,  my  dear.  The  man  of 
twenty-five  must  not  encourage  sentiment,  or  he  is  a  — 
a  —  foul  thing.  It's  the  law  of  our  civilization ;  and  I 
was  not  free  to  break  it." 

"  '  America !  Ze  lant  of  Leeberty ! '  "  she  mimicked 
Bardek  softly.  "  You  couldn't  write  what  you  thought. 
.  .  .  No,  I  see  that.  .  .  .  You'd  have  been  ashamed, 
wouldn't  you?  ...  It  is  one  of  t'  t'ings  you  would 
die  for,  eh?  Wass?  '  " 

"  Absolutely !  "  he  spoke  with  conviction.  "  Bless 
my  soul ! " 

"  All  right,"  she  regarded  him  carefully.  "  You  are 
forgiven  —  almost.  .  .  .  You  made  me  so  blamed  mad, 
by  just  letting  me  slide  that  way,  that  I  could  have 
done  things  to  you.  Well,  that's  all  over  and  I  feel 
better.  I  couldn't  quarrel  with  anybody  very  long 
today;  this  new  dress  fits  too  well;  but  I  just  had  to 
have  this  thing  out  with  you,  Allen  Blynn,  or  —  or  — " 
She  could  not  think  of  an  adequate  figure  of  speech. 

"  Now,"  she  went  on ;  "  topic  number  —  what  num- 
ber is  it?  Five,  I  think.  Topic  number  five.  Tell  me 
all  about  Germany.  That's  the  last  topic  till  we  reach 
Haverford.  Just  go  on,  and  on,  and  talk  and  talk,  and 


178  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

I'll  snuggle  up  in  this  corner  and  listen.  .  .  .  Hurry! 
.  .  .  Begin!" 

She  leaned  back  in  the  cushion  with  a  rug  tucked  up 
and  around  her  as  warm  and  contented  as  a  sleepy 
kitten. 

He  talked  of  Germany,  and  world  politics,  and  litera- 
ture and  pedagogy.  When  he  drooped,  she  stirred  him 
on. 

As  they  drew  near  Haverford  he  asked  her  a  ques- 
tion about  the  games.  She  gave  no  answer.  Propped 
in  her  corner,  just  beside  the  wrinkles  made  where  the 
hood  of  the  carriage  is  thrown  back,  she  was  having  a 
contented,  smiling  slumber. 

He  watched  her  as  she  slept,  mused  on  her  calms 
and  her  storms,  speculated  as  to  what  sort  of  character 
was  emerging.  As  they  drew  into  the  Club  gateway, 
he  touched  her  gently. 

"  I  have  guarded  thy  .couch,  fair  Titania,"  he  said ; 
"  I,  Bottom,  the  weaver,  have  done  that  thing." 

"  Where's  Peaseblossom  ?  "  she  took  her  cue  quickly. 

Blynn  jerked  his  thumb  toward  the  diminutive  Mac, 
who  had  now  begun  to  stiffen  up  and  look  his  smartest 
before  the  superior  broughams  in  the  lane  about  him. 

"  Peaseblossom  in  '  blacks,'  "  she  gurgled.  "  Oh ! 
oh !  That  is  too  funny !  " 

"  Topic  number  six,"  he  announced  quietly.  "  I  in- 
tend to  take  your  advice  about  Holden.  I'm  going." 

"When?" 

"  October ;  next  month." 


TOPIC  NUMBER  FOUR  179 

She  pondered  for  a  second  or  two  and  then  nodded 
a  determined  head. 

"  Good  boy !  "  she  patted  him  on  the  arm.  "  Bully ! 
Now  you're  talking  like  a  grown-up  man." 


XIV 

A    MORRIS   DAT 

ONLY  a  small  gallery  followed  the  tennis  tourna- 
ment. Although  there  were  some  splendid 
outside  entries  and  the  match  took  on  the 
flavor  of  a  semi-official  eastern  championship,  the  news- 
papers —  according  to  Diccon  —  had  not  yet  made 
tennis  a  sport.  A  magnificent  cup,  with  some  good 
names  already  on  it,  was  the  trophy;  and  the  finals  in 
singles,  between  Morris  and  Clarke,  would  decide  the 
year's  holder. 

While  Mac  was  engineering  a  good  spot  for  the  car- 
riage, Gorgas  scanned  the  players'  quarters  for  signs 
of  Morris.  Soon  a  white  figure  — "  ducks,"  white  cap, 
open-throated  shirt  —  waved  in  the  distance  and  began 
to  make  toward  them. 

"  Allen  Blynn,"  Gorgas  spoke  quietly,  "  don't  you 
back-pedal  for  one  minute  on  that  Holden  job."  It 
was  the  day  of  the  bicycle.  "  You've  won  it  accord- 
ing to  the  rules.  You've  just  got  to  go.  I'm  mighty 
glad  you're  thinking  sensibly  about  it.  Now,  that's  all 
the  time  I  can  give  you  —  the  rest  of  the  day  belongs 
to  Edwin  Morris.  Wish  it  were  baseball,  so  we  could 
root  for  him.  Hello,  boy,  how  are  you  feeling?  " 

"  Never  better,"  said  the  boy. 

180 


A  MORRIS  DAY  181 

Morris  tossed  back  a  lock  of  hair  as  he  came  up 
smiling.  Lithe,  clean-looking  suppleness  he  showed; 
shy  almost ;  lounging ;  giving  no  sign  of  superior  physi- 
cal power;  that  unique  creature,  a  new  species,  the 
American  college-athlete. 

"  You're  going  to  win,  of  course,"  Gorgas  searched 
his  face  admiringly. 

"  The  trouble  is,"  he  drawled,  "  Clarke  says  he  feels 
fit,  too.  We've  agreed  to  let  loose  and  give  you  a  show 
for  your  penny." 

Blynn  inquired,  "  Forgive  me,  Edwin,  for  not  know- 
ing who  Clarke  is.  He's  your  friend,  the  enemy ;  is  he 
not?" 

"  Fancy  not  knowing  Clarke,  Hudson  Clarke ! " 
Gorgas  looked  at  him  in  wonderment.  "  He's  the  foxi- 
est tenniser  outside  of  dear  old  Lun'non.  We'd  be 
lucky  to  get  his  scalp,  I  tell  you." 

Her  loyalty  was  immense.  She  filled  Morris  with 
the  glow  of  success,  keyed  him  up  with  little  whispers  of 
faith,  and  gave  him  something  to  fight  for. 

On  his  white  shirt  the  tiny  fraternity  brooch  made 
a  conspicuous  mark.  Gorgas  reached  over  and  care- 
fully disengaged  the  patent  fastening  and,  with  equal 
care,  pinned  it  upon  her  own  proud  new  gown.  Morris 
watched  her  without  speaking.  She  gave  it  several 
little  pats  to  see  if  it  were  secure  and  then  talked  into 
his  right  ear. 

"  That's  for  good  luck." 

"  Going  to  keep  it?  "  he  grinned.  He  knew  all  about 
the  significance  of  wearing  a  man's  fraternity  pin. 


182  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  There's  never  no  telling.     Mebbe ;  if  you  win." 

"  She's  rather  savage,  don't  you  think? "  Blynn 
leaned  forward  and  rallied  her.  "  Think  how  all 
Clarke's  little  girls  will  feel  if  he  loses." 

"That's  their  affair,"  she  shut  her  lips.  "We're 
after  that  cup,  aren't  we,  boy?  When  we  play  we  go 
in  hard;  no  quarter;  divil  take  the  hindmost.  That's 
the  only  way  to  play.  Slash  'em,  knock  'em  over,  go 
for  'em.  I  just  hate  the  chap  I'm  playing  against  — 
until  the  game's  over." 

"  Contrariwise?  "  Morris  jested. 

"  Sans  doute,"  she  patted  him  on  the  head,  "  until 
the  game's  over." 

They  chatted  together  like  chums,  until  the  call  came 
for  the  finals. 

To  Blynn  those  two  young  persons  seemed  suddenly 
alien;  it  was  his  first  sense  of  moving  away  from  very 
young  life.  It  comes  to  some  men  in  the  twenties 
and  to  others  not  until  much  later.  One  day  you  find 
yourself  a  stranger  to  the  prattle  about  you ;  it  may  be 
you  grow  a  little  testy  at  its  inanities,  its  silly  repe- 
titions and  obvious  repartee;  or  perhaps  you  try  to 
join  in,  and  find  the  youngsters  combining  to  laugh  at 
your  clumsiness.  Over  there,  smoking  stolidly  in  the 
easy  chairs,  there  is  where  you  belong.  You  stare  and 
figure  out  ages  and  discover  to  your  consternation  that 
you  do  belong  over  there.  Then  some  old,  old,  lady  to 
whom  you  feel  like  saying,  "  Yes,  ma'am  "  and  "  No, 
ma'am  " —  if  that  was  the  salutation  of  your  own  day 
—  comes  burbling  forward  to  claim  you  as  a  con- 


A  MORRIS  DAY  183 

temporary.  And  with  the  laughter  of  the  children  still 
in  your  ears,  and  half  claiming  your  attention,  you 
begin  lamely  to  talk  life  insurance  or  the  present  ad- 
ministration's foreign  policy. 

After  Morris  had  gone,  Blynn  felt  very  uncomfort- 
able. He  would  have  given  much  to  be  able  to  slip 
quietly  out  and  get  at  his  note-taking  on  Scot's  "  Dis- 
coverie  of  Witchcraft  " ;  or  to  have  some  member  of  his 
"  contemporary  club  "  stroll  by  and  take  a  seat  in  the 
carriage.  He  didn't  know  what  to  say  to  this  strange 
young  person  before  him ;  especially  after  he  had  wit- 
nessed the  kind  of  prattle  youth  carries  on  now-a-days. 
(Did  he  ever  talk  that  way  to  girls?  he  wondered.  He 
couldn't  remember  —  another  sign  of  distance.) 

But,  Gorgas  was  true  to  her  word.  The  remainder 
of  that  day  was  given  over  to  Edwin  Morris.  After 
all,  tennis  was  her  trade;  she  was  looking  on  with  a 
craftsman's  eye,  catching  the  meaning  of  every  serve 
and  return. 

The  first  set  was  a  battle.  Both  men  kept  to  their 
agreement  to  wade  in  and  give  the  small  crowd  an  ex- 
hibition. Deuce  games  were  frequent.  After  4—3  in 
favor  of  Clarke,  Morris'  serve  evened  it  to  4—4.  By 
a  squeak  it  went  to  5-4  —  Clarke  had  slipped  to  the 
ground  in  trying  for  an  easy  ball  —  and  Morris  took 
his  own  serve  for  the  set:  6—4. 

Gorgas  could  hardly  contain  her  joy.  She  ap- 
plauded with  little,  rapid  slaps  upon  her  kid  gloves  and 
called  to  Blynn  to  help  with  the  noise.  Her  gloves  came 
ripping  off  so  that  she  could  make  her  allegiance  heard. 


184  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Oh,  that  serve !  "  she  chuckled.  "  It  looks,  oh,  so 
easy ;  but  it's  a  fooler.  He  invented  it  and  uses  it  only 
when  he  needs  a  point.  It  has  hardly  a  bounce  to  it; 
just  skims  along  the  grass.  Edwin!  Edwin!"  she 
talked  but  forebore  calling.  "  We're  here !  "  When  he 
glanced  slowly  over,  grinning  sheepishly  as  if  he  had 
done  something  wrong,  she  tugged  at  his  fraternity 
brooch  and  made  as  if  to  wave  it. 

In  the  second  set  Morris  maintained  the  lead  until 
5—4.  It  looked  like  both  sets  and  the  trophy,  but 
Clarke  let  loose,  as  if  mad,  evened  the  score  and  tore 
through  to  7—5  and  set. 

It  still  had  the  appearance  of  a  Morris  day.  Clarke 
was  evidently  winded  and  worn.  He  was  strangely 
pale;  the  good-natured  smile  was  rather  fixed;  but  he 
stood  up  gamely  for  the  third  and  final  set. 

"  You've  got  him,  boy,"  Gorgas  murmured,  just  loud 
enough  for  Blynn.  "  Steady !  Just  keep  her  travel- 
ing. .  .  .  That's  the  way !  Let  him  put  'em  out !  .  .  . 
Make  him  work !  He's  going  down !  See  him  breathe ! 
.  .  .  That's  the  way!  Play  safe!  .  .  .  Whoopee! 
Did  you  see  that  'Lawford'?"  And  so  on,  straining 
and  pulling  with  every  smack  of  the  ball. 

Clarke  deliberately  gave  a  game  away,  evidently  to 
secure  a  rest.  The  score  stood  4—2  in  favor  of  Morris. 
They  were  changing  courts,  Morris  with  steady  steps, 
Clarke  with  a  drag.  They  said  a  few  words  as  they 
passed  the  net.  Clarke  shook  his  head  and  dropped  on 
one  knee,  ripped  off  the  top  lace  of  his  shoe  to  adjust 
a  white  ankle  brace.  During  the  next  game  Clarke 


A  MORRIS  DAY  185 

barely  stirred  from  one  spot  on  the  court;  naturally, 
the  score  was  with  Morris  at  5-2. 

Gorgas  stopped  her  chatter.  "  Clarice  put  his  ankle 
out  when  he  slipped,"  she  told  Blynn. 

"How  do  you  know?"  Blynn  was  aware  of  some- 
thing strange  in  the  playing.  "  He  isn't  moving  much, 
but  he's  doing  rather  well,  just  now." 

"  Don't  you  see? "  she  went  on.  "  He's  all  in. 
Look  how  white  he  is.  ...  They  ought  to  stop  the 
game.  It's  a  pity ! "  She  suffered  in  sympathy  with 
every  swing  Clarke  made  to  hold  back  defeat.  "  They 
oughtn't  to  allow  it.  ...  Why  doesn't  Edwin  see  he's 
not  trying  for  anything." 

Then  followed  the  absurdest  bit  of  tennis  that  two 
really  good  players  ever  put  up  before  spectators. 
Double  faults  were  common ;  wide  balls ;  missed  shots 
that  Blynn  himself  could  have  handled.  Clarke  was 
plainly  given  three  games.  Score  5-5. 

Once  the  men  seemed  to  be  disputing.  Something 
that  Morris  said  drove  the  smile  from  Clarke's  face,  but 
not  the  pallor;  and  he  came  back  for  a  few  moments 
with  his  old-time  form. 

"  Good  work ! "  Morris  called.  The  score  was 
Clarke's  at  6—5.  It  began  suddenly  to  grow  dark  from 
a  threatening  storm. 

The  men  slackened  again,  each  seeming  to  give  way 
to  the  other.  The  shots  were  all  going  to  the  center 
of  the  court.  No  one  seemed  to  be  trying  to  get  by 
the  other.  It  was  so  amateurish  that  the  men  them- 
selves occasionally  laughed.  Back  and  forth  the  ball 


186  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

sailed  peacefully  —  neither  man  budged  —  until,  in  the 
nature  of  things,  it  dropped  into  the  net  or  went  out 
of  bounds.  Two  automatons,  fixed  near  the  back  line, 
with  power  to  lean  and  swing  arms,  that  was  the  pic- 
ture they  presented.  Nevertheless,  under  these  absurd 
conditions,  the  men  were  playing  with  dogged  earnest- 
ness. The  game  was  desperately  disputed,  Clarke 
finally  winning  the  set  at  7—5,  and  with  it,  the  trophy. 

"  Tiddledywinks ! "  Gorgas  summed  up  the  game. 
"  But  glory  be ! "  she  turned  a  shining  face  to  Blynn. 
"  Wasn't  that  the  dandy  thing  to  do  ?  I'd  not  have 
spoken  to  him  if  he'd  won  that  cup  against  a  lame  man. 
Look  at  Clarke.  They're  carrying  him  off.  He  knows 
Ed  let  up.  But,  really,  the  way  they  played  made  it 
perfectly  fair.  It  was  anybody's  game.  They  might 
have  spun  a  quarter  for  it.  ...  And  Neddie  did  so 
want  to  win.  .  .  .  He  never  said  so ;  but  I  know.  This 
is  an  awful  swell  cup,  Allen  Blynn.  The  winner  always 
is  somebody  for  a  year,  I  tell  you.  Ed  worked  so  hard 
to  get  in  shape  for  this.  .  .  .  It's  a  darn  shame.  .  .  . 
Here!  get  out  and  take  a  walk  and  tell  me  when  Ed 
comes  with  the  tea-things.  I'm  g-going  to  —  stay  in 
here  a-lone  for  a-while.  .  .  .  Get  out !  I  tell  you.  .  .  . 
Get  out ! " 

While  Blynn  drew  up  the  carriage  hood  as  a  precau- 
tion against  the  coming  shower,  he  could  hear  her 
quietly  having  her  disappointment  out  in  little  dimin- 
ishing sobs.  He  looked  at  the  sky ;  both  storms  threat- 
ened to  be  over  soon. 

Sprinkles  of  rain  and  Edwin  with  hot  buttered  muf- 


A  MORRIS  DAY  187 

fins  and  a  tray  full  of  cups  appeared  at  the  same  time. 

"  There's  plenty  of  tea  and  things,"  he  called  merrily. 
"  Everybody's  clearing  out  on  account  of  the  shower. 
.  .  .  Wait  till  I  gather  in  a  few  more  hot  muffins." 

Gorgas'  eyes  followed  him.  He  did  not  miss  that; 
nor  the  whispered,  "  Fine  work,  old  chap ;  we  saw  what 
you  did."  But,  characteristically,  he  said  nothing 
about  the  game  or  its  outcome. 

"  Good  sport,  Clarke,"  Morris  said  later,  the  nearest 
he  came  to  discussing  it.  "  Must  have  been  ready  to 
flop.  .  .  .  Cleaned  me  up  in  that  second  set;  with  a 
cracked  ankle,  too.  Only  thing  to  do  —  bring  it  on 
the  level  as  near  as  possible.  Seems  a  shame.  Clarke 
didn't  want  to  win  that  way.  Neither  of  us  did." 

During  the  brief  shower,  Gorgas  mothered  him, 
tucked  the  rug  about  him,  fed  him  muffins,  and  decided 
just  the  proper  color  of  tea  for  a  hero.  And  then  she 
insisted  that  he  drive  back  with  them. 

As  Blynn  thought  of  the  spectacle  of  those  two 
youngsters  picnicking  together,  facing  him  all  the  way 
home,  and  talking  their  private  jargon,  he  decided  for 
the  seat  beside  Mac. 

"  Good  work,  Professor,"  Morris  laughed.  "  We 
don't  like  to  hurry  you  off,  but  — ' 

The  children  seemed  carried  away  by  some  unguess- 
able  joke. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  Blynn  beamed  down  on  them 
benignly.  "Is  my  tie  jumping  the  track  in  back?" 
That  was  one  of  his  constant  fears.  His  right  hand 
explored  the  neck. 


188  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"Oh,  your  back's  all  right,"  Morris  could  hardly 
hold  his  joy  at  Blynn's  obtuseness.  "Back's  fine!" 
Then  he  began  to  chant  a  college  song  of  the  hour, 
keeping  time  by  rapid  pats  on  his  knees. 

*'  We  were  yachting  and  the  chaperone 

Was  blind  and  deaf  and  dumb, 
Why,  she  couldn't  hear  the  thump  and  crash 

Of  cymbal  and  of  drum, 
When  we  shot  off  three  salutes 

For  the  captain  of  the  fleet 
She  remarked,  'Oh  hear  the  dicky  birdie! 

Tweet !  Tweet !  Tweet ! ' " 

Blynn  found  Mac  a  contemporary.  They  talked  of 
England's  treatment  of  Ireland,  of  the  causes  of  immi- 
gration and  what  the  world  was  coming  to,  anyway. 
It  was  good  talk,  grown-man's  fodder;  while,  back  of 
them,  the  youngsters,  tucked  up  in  a  rug,  sang  songs, 
comic  and  sentimental,  flashed  nonsense  back  and  forth, 
recited  absurd  verse,  and  even  hallooed  to  passersby. 
Bless  our  soul!  Did  we  ever  go  through  that  stage? 
Perhaps.  Then  praise  be  to  memory  for  forgetting  all 
about  it! 

Twilight  found  them  ambling  along  the  Wissahickon 
drive.  In  the  woodland  it  was  almost  dark. 

"  This  'ere  Bardek,"  Mac  shook  his  head,  "  Vs  a 
funny  feller." 

"  You've  come  to  know  him  pretty  well,  I  suppose, 
Mac,"  prodded  Blynn. 

"  Ye-es,"  Mac  busied  himself  holding  in  the  horses 
while  they  passed  a  returning  "  century  run  "  of  bi- 


A  MORRIS  DAY  189 

cycles,  each  one  with  a  different  kind  of  bell  and  a  differ- 
ent light.  "  Plagued  bikes  !  —  jes'  clutter  up  the  road. 
No  pleasure  drivin'  no  more."  After  the  main  body 
had  passed,  the  stragglers  were  easy  to  avoid.  "  Oh, 
he's  all  right  —  I  guess,  but  —  well,  he  talks  a  lot,  now ; 
don't  he?  " 

"  His  talk  is  rich,"  said  Blynn.  "  It  has  the  charm 
of  straight  thinking,  unbiased  thinking.  He's  travelled 
a  great  deal  and  is  naturally  observant.  I  don't  al- 
ways agree  with  him,  but  I  like  his  talk." 

"  Do  y'  understan'  all  he's  drivin'  at  ?  "  Mac  seemed 
incredulous  of  anyone  doing  that.  "  An'  d'  y'  think 
he  understand  it  'isself  ?  " 

Without  waiting  for  an  answer  to  his  question,  Mac 
went  on: 

"  Now,  I  don't  say  I  don't  like  him,  'cause  I  do.  He 
stands  by  Miss  Gorgas,  as  if  she  might  be  his  own 
daughter.  That's  all  right.  But — "  Mac  glanced 
back  furtively  — "  he  gives  me  a  lot  o'  talk  about  mar- 
riage, which,  as  bein'  a  respectable  marri'd  man,  m'self, 
I'm  not  takin'  no  stock  in.  Wimmen  may  be  one  thing, 
and  wimmen  may  be  another ;  but  marrid  is  marrid  — 
that's  my  way  o*  thinkin'.  It's  the  way  I  was  brung 
up  and  I  sticks  to  it.  He's  got  migh-ty  funny  notions 
about  marriage  —  migh-ty  funny.  It's  my  opinion, 
and  it's  me  wife's  opinion,  that  he  ain't  never  marri'd 
to  th't  little  woman  in  the  glen.  Mind,  I'm  not  asayin' 
it  is  nor  it  taint  so.  All  that  I  know  is  'e  don't  be- 
lieve much  in  marriage.  Dangerous  character,  I  call 
*im;  but,  I  do  like  to  have  'im  aroun'.  .  .  .  Why,  he 


190  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

don't  believe  in  property,  nor  money,  nor  the  church  nor 
nothin'.  He  says  he  thinks  God  is  interested  in  gnats 
and  horseflies !  Think  o'  that,  now !  .  .  .  I  was  pullin' 
up  weeds  in  the  garden  once,  and  he  looked  at  me  and 
laughed.  *  Why  you  change  all  God's  plans  for,  you 
ol'  Mac?  '  he  sez.  '  Takes  a  lot  o*  time  to  make  nice 
clean  weed.  You  don't  like  the  way  the  Lord  made  the 
earth,  eh?  In  six  day,'  he  sez,  '  the  Lord  created 
heaven  and  earth  and  all  that  therein  is,  and  ol'  Mac 
he  spend  all  his  life  pullin'  it  up  and  makin'  it  better. 
An'  w'at  you  grow  ?  '  he  sez.  *  Ugh !  tomat !  ugh !  Gott,' 
he  sez, '  spoil  ni-ce  f re-sh  weed  for  ol'  tomat !  ugh ! '  and 
he  makes  faces  and  waves  'is  hands.  .  .  .  Now,  w'at 
you  agoin'  to  do  with  a  feller  like  that?  " 

"  Don't  do  anything,"  laughed  Blynn.  "  Just  enjoy 
him." 

"  An'  he's  a  anarchist,  too,"  Mac's  head  shook  very 
dolefully  at  that.  "  Sez  he  is,  'imself.  Sez  he's  as 
much  anarchist  as  anything.  That's  purt-ty  bad,  Mr. 
Blynn.  Herr  Most  and  all  them  Chicago  fellers !  Um ! 
An'  y*  can't  help  likin'  'im!  I'd  do  almost  anything 
for  Bardek  —  think  o'  that,  now !  —  most  anything  — 
I  hev  already  lied  for  him !  —  think  o'  that,  now,  him 
as  good  as  an  anarchist  and  me  a  respectable  marri'd 
man ! " 

Out  of  the  dark  of  Cresheim  road  came  a  sonorous 
voice.  It  was  far  off,  moving  toward  them.  The  song 
was  evidently  improvised,  both  words  and  music.  The 
refrain,  which  had  been  more  carefully  worked  up,  came 
clear  across  the  night. 


A  MORRIS  DAY  191 

"Oh,  boards  and  plaster! 
Boards  and  plaster! 
Nail  me  in  the  w'ite  wash  house. 

La  forte  fermte 

Good  air,  adie 
I  live  like  mouse, 
I  live  like  cows." 

("  Cows  "  rhymed  perfectly  with  **  house.") 

The  singer  sighted  the  dull  lamps  of  the  carriage 
and  shouted  a  mighty  "  Whoo-ee !  "  which  was  answered 
quickly  by  Gorgas. 

"  I  haf  moved  from  one  t'ousand  B.  C.  straight  — 
plumpf !  —  into  the  nineteen  century."  Bardek  bobbed 
up  before  them,  but  Bardek  with  waving  mustachio 
gone,  Bardek  shaved  and  hair-cutted,  Bardek  in  new 
soft  hat,  rolling  low  collar  and  a  roomy  new  suit  of 
clothes !  He  was  quite  resplendent  and  stunning,  but 
outwardly  a  brand  new  Bardek. 

"  Presto!  I  jump  into  respectables,"  he  bowed. 
"  My  family  is  moved.  They  have  all  said  the  prayers 
and  skipped  to  sleep.  Ah !  OP  Mac,  you  are  no  more 
to  be  the  on'y  respectable  married  man  in  all  Amer- 
ica." 

With  laughter  they  helped  him  into  the  carriage. 

"  I  give  my  wife  and  kiddies  one  gran'  scare.  They 
t'ink  I  am  some  strange  feller,  till  I  talk  —  ah !  Who 
talk  like  Bardek !  In  six  languages  I  prove  myself. 
So !  I  gif  up  liberty  an'  become  American  slave.  In 
America  all  men  are  slave  to  women  and  children. 
Freiheit,  adie!  " 

Questions  brought  out  the  fact  that  he  had  taken 


192  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

possession  of  the  white  cottage,  moved  his  family  in  — 
to  the  great  joy  of  the  children  —  and  had  marched 
off  to  the  nearest  barber  and  then  to  the  nearest  cloth- 
ing store. 

"  I  say  to  the  barber,  '  Make  me  like  American ! ' 
He  say,  *  It  cost  you  much  —  one-half  dollar ! '  I  say, 
'Here  is  one  whole  dollar.  This  is  a  big  job;  don't 
do  it  half!  *  Then  he  clip,  clip,  clip,  but  I  say  noth- 
ings. '  Americans  wear  the  "  clean  face,"  '  he  stop  and 
say.  I  say,  'I  talk  vairy  well  myself;  do!'  I  t'ink 
with  *  clean  face '  he  means  wash  it ;  but  hoh !  he  mean 
6  cut  it  off !  *  So  I  learn  some  new  English  and  look 
like  a  fat,  little,  stupid  priest,  eh,  Mac?  We  go  to 
mass,  Sunday,  eh,  ol' Mac?  But  not  confession !  Ach, 
du  lieber  Gott!  When  I  tell  all  my  little  sins  it  would 
be  Sunday  again !  How  you  like  me,  eh?  " 

It  was  hard  to  get  used  to  the  new  Bardek ;  the  vaga- 
bond had  made  way  for  a  distinguished  foreigner. 
They  discovered,  in  looking  him  over,  that  it  was  the 
sweeping  mustachio  which  gave  him  the  appearance  of 
desperado.  The  broad  forehead,  the  deep  eyes,  the 
great  nose,  the  laughing  lips  and  the  huge  chin  were 
well  worth  exposing.  It  was  like  the  transformation 
wrought  when  campers  come  out  of  the  woods,  quite 
undistinguishable  from  the  native  guides,  and,  after  one 
hour's  refurbishing  and  barbering,  become  gentlemen. 
There  would  be  no  doubt,  thought  Blynn,  of  a  welcome 
for  Bardek  at  the  Leverings. 

"  It  is  a  good  feeling,"  Bardek  stroked  his  newly 
shorn  face.  "  My  skin  has  changed  into  American.  I 


A  MORRIS  DAY  193 

cannot  yet  spit,  but,  if  I  try  —  mebbe.  .  .  .  The  wife, 
oh,  she  run  all  t'rough  the  rooms,  and  the  children,  too ; 
and  they  laugh  and  fall  on  the  floor  and  laugh.  They 
go  out  to  breathe  and  come  in  and  stay  as  long  as  they 
can  —  La  porte  fermee.  Good  air  adie  —  like  sea  diver 
—  till  I  open  windows.  We  go  to  store  and  buy  broom 
and  bed  and  —  everything.  In  little  while,  we  fix 
things.  Wife,  she  go  to  Mac's  house  and  peek  in  win- 
dow to  see  where  bed  go  —  she  on'y  little  girl  when  I 
take  her.  An'  good  Mrs.  Mac,  she  come  over  and  laugh 
and  they  all  laugh.  We  all  so  silly.  Then,  Mrs.  Mac, 
she  change  everything  different,  while  she  near  die 
laughing.  We  have  bed  in  the  kitchen,  she  say,  and 
stoves  in  the  yard  with  the  pump.  But,  Mrs.  Mac  she 
fix  all.  And  how  we  work!  Ach!  My  bones  hurt. 
We  are  vairy  grand.  Ma  foi!  My  wife,  she  cry  and 
say  she  afraid.  The  bed  go  c-r-r-eck,  cr-r-eck,  and  go 
down,  down,  down.  But  she  vairy  tired  and  she  sleep. 
Then  I  go  out  and  pull  door-bell.  La!  la!  la!  la!  I 
wait,  holdin'  in  big  laugh.  I  think  I  see  whole  dam' 
business  come  crying  for  the  devils  have  come  to  get 
t'em.  I  wait.  I  hold  my  laugh  back.  I  ring  loud. 
So!  Schwurunkl-angl-unkl-angl-angle!  All  so  still.  I 
go  up  the  crooked  steps  —  some  day  I  break  my  neck, 
there !  —  Via!  Sleep  like  dead.  .  .  .  Me !  Wah-oo- 
eep !  "  he  yawned.  "  I  sleep  stan'  up." 

He  began  a  second,  healthy,  out-in-the-woods  yawn, 
which  extended  amid  comfortable  "  ah's  "  and  "  oh's  " 
and  "  ee's  "  until  it  snapped  back  in  ecstatic  relief. 

"  Oh-wo-wo-wo !  "    imitated    Gorgas.     "  You've    ow ! 


THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

wow!  got  me  go-ow-ing  too,  Bardek.  I'm  so-ow-oh 
slee-py." 

Everyone  yawned.  Bardek  outdid  himself.  Mac 
nearly  dislocated  his  jaw. 

In  a  moment  or  two  Bardek  was  put  down  at  his 
"  boards  and  plaster,"  and  Gorgas,  Blynn  and  Morris 
were  saying  farewells. 

"  My  pin,"  Morris  was  holding  out  a  hand. 

"I  think  I'll  keep  it,"  she  pushed  his  hand  aside. 
"  You  deserve  something  for  today's  work.  You  were 
great,  boy;  simply  great!" 

Morris  said  his  goodbys  quickly  and  was  off  to  catch 
a  town  train. 

"  And,  now,  Mr.  Professor,"  Gorgas  turned  to  Blynn, 
"  I'm  going  to  write  to  you  when  you  arrive  at  Holden, 
and  if  you  don't  answer  within  five  days  —  I'll  — •" 

"  What  will  you  do,  child?  " 

She  looked  at  him  steadily.  Smiles  and  little  frowns 
came  and  went,  like  gust  ripples  on  a  pond. 

"  Don't  ever  put  a  girl  through  that  sort  of  thing 
again.  You  don't  know  what  it  is  to  be  eaten  up  with 
shame  —  every  day,  too,  for  months  and  months. 
Well!  We've  dropped  that;  haven't  we?  But  I'm 
still  a  little  hot  about  it.  ...  Good  night,  Allen  Blynn 
.  .  .  and  good  luck  to  you  .  .  .  and  remember;  don't 
back-pedal." 

"  Good  night,  I'm  on  my  mettle,"  he  tried  her  old 
rhyming  game,  as  he  walked  away. 

"  And  answer  letters,"  she  retorted,  and  added,  "  or 
with  Gorgas  Levering  you'll  have  to  settle." 


XV 

THE    LADY    OF    THE    INTERRUPTION 

SHE  wrote  to  him  at  regular  intervals,  and  he  an- 
swered dutifully.  To  him  they  were  the  little 
letters  of  a  lost  child ;  not  entirely  lost,  for  much 
of  the  child  was  in  her  scrawling  notes.  With  many 
persons  the  written  word  is  much  more  intelligent  than 
the  oral ;  but  with  Gorgas  Levering,  who  in  a  chat  would 
easily  give  the  impression  of  the  grown  woman,  letter- 
writing  exhibited  a  youngster  still  in  the  teens. 

She  did  not  seem  to  know  what  to  say ;  one  wonders 
why  she  wrote;  indeed,  half  of  the  letter  would  be  an- 
nouncements of  why  she  could  not  write.  And  the 
spelling!  For  a  young  lady  who  spoke  and  read 
fluently  in  four  languages,  that  spelling  was  inex- 
plicable. 

Once  Blynn  sent  back  a  letter  with  all  the  misspelled 
words  underscored  in  red  ink,  and  with  the  fatherly 
suggestion  that  she  look  them  up  and  send  him  a  re- 
written copy. 

Her  answer  was  a  shocker ;  every  word  was  purposely 
put  out  of  gear. 

"  Deer  Proffessorr,"  it  ran.  "  Eye  kannott  korres- 
spponndd  eney  longerr  wwithh  U. 

"  Wun :  U  R  2  smarrt, 

195 


196  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Too :  Ewer  minde  iz  teecher-krazy  an  kant  C  any- 
thing butt  lettres  an  semi-coalons. 

"  Thre :  Eye  kan  beet  U  left  handed  inn  tennes 

"  Ewers, 

"  GOABGASS." 

But  she  tried.  Evidence  was  abundant  enough.  All 
suspicious  words  were  left  either  totally  blank  or  half- 
begun,  to  be  finished  out  laboriously  later  via  a  small 
dictionary.  The  dictionary  was  not  always  employed 
immediately  —  her  letters  were  regularly  written  at  the 
sleepiest  hour  of  the  night ;  so  that  Blynn  had  the  great- 
est joy  in  seeing  dozens  of  hard  words,  like  "  disap- 
point "  and  "  necessary,"  flaring  at  him  in  two  differ- 
ent kinds  of  ink,  black  for  the  first  half  and  pale  blue 
for  the  tails.  His  prize-letter  —  which  he  did  not  dare 
twit  her  about,  for  fear  the  supply  would  suddenly 
cease  —  was  a  mysterious  thing,  full  of  beginnings  and 
no  tails  at  all !  Evidently  sleep  had  overtaken  the  dic- 
tionary benediction. 

In  their  correspondence  during  the  first  college  terms 
at  Holden,  while  she  was  growing  from  sixteen  to  almost 
eighteen,  there  was  hardly  a  personal  note  struck.  One 
would  not  suspect  that  they  had  ever  been  acquainted. 
Hers  resembled  school  exercises  more  than  anything 
else,  full  of  incoherent  announcements  of  local  news. 
His,  on  the  other  hand,  were  short  stories  of  Holden 
life;  gathered  together  they  might  have  been  published 
as  the  personal  impressions  of  Professor  Blynn  on  the 
manners  and  customs  of  Holdonians.  They  were  brisk, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION      197 

sprightly  narratives,  rather  longish,  for  he  dictated 
them  to  a  by-the-hour  stenographer,  but  rich  in  per- 
sonal flavor  and  really  interesting.  The  Levering  fam- 
ily read  them  in  turn  as  they  might  have  passed  on  the 
numbers  of  a  serial  story. 

From  Gorgas,  Allen  knew  that  his  letters  were  public 
property.  That  may  have  had  some  effect  upon  their 
construction  and  style;  certainly,  they  grew  in  finished 
form  and  came  to  lend  themselves  easily  to  public  fam- 
ily reading. 

But  none  of  the  matters  that  troubled  him,  nor  any 
of  his  pedagogic  dreams  or  literary  ambitions  found 
their  way  into  these  chatty  epistles.  It  was  a  selected, 
semi-impersonal  college  world  that  he  sorted  out  and 
presented  to  the  Levering  family;  but  a  real  one,  for 
all  that. 

Through  these  news-letters  Gorgas  knew  that  he  had 
been  lured  by  the  siren  of  the  lecture  platform  —  al- 
ways lying  in  wait  for  talkative  young  professors. 
Diccon  saw  to  it  that  every  public  utterance  of  the 
distinguished  young  scholar  who  had  been  called  to  the 
chair  of  English  in  Holden  College  should  be  properly 
placed  before  the  readers  of  the  city  newspapers.  It 
worried  Blynn,  to  be  sure,  to  find  his  casual  illustration 
made  the  subject  of  "small-heads" — there  is  nothing 
more  frightful  to  sincere  teachers  than  this  sort  of 
up-side-down  publicity  —  but  he  solaced  himself  by 
hoping  no  one  would  see  it. 

In  Mount  Airy  Gorgas  Levering  was  searching  every 
page  for  such  notices  and  was  happy  to  get  even  a 


198  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

three-line  flyer  just  above  the  obituaries ;  and  she  cut 
them  out  and  pasted  them  in  a  scrap-book.  She  felt 
responsible  for  his  going  to  Holden,  she  assured  herself, 
and  she  developed  an  I-told-you-so  spirit  with  every 
discovery  of  what  she  believed  to  be  proper  fame. 
*'  Professor  Allen  Blynn,  head  of  the  division  of  Eng- 
lish of  Holden  College,  also  spoke,"  was  often  sufficient 
proof  to  her  of  her  wisdom  in  advising  him  to  go  up  to 
the  larger  work. 

She  learned,  too,  of  other  matters,  his  phenomenal 
success  in  teaching  his  young  children  by  way  of  corre- 
spondence, his  pedagogic  reforms  in  the  administration 
at  Holden,  all  of  which  she  mused  over  with  something 
akin  to  maternal  calm;  but  one  day  his  letter  broke 
forth  with  the  discovery  of  a  "  lady,"  and  Gorgas  grew 
apprehensive  and  suspicious  and  on  guard. 

"  My  dear  Leverings,"  he  wrote.  "  Here's  Mystery 
for  you!  And  a  Lady!  And  local  newspaper  noto- 
riety —  not  yet  scandalous  !  " 

He  had  been  lecturing  before  the  Alpha  Women's 
Club  on  "  The  Dull  Pleasures  of  the  Mob."  It  was  one 
of  those  defenses  of  the  intellectual  life  which  every 
enthusiastic  scholar  is  prepared  to  utter  at  a  moment's 
notice.  The  intellectual  audience  were  proud  of  him; 
they  applauded  every  one  of  his  clever  shafts  as  justifi- 
cation for  their  life  of  charming  indolence.  Then  he 
forgot  himself  and  inquired : 

"  Is  there  any  question  on  that  point  ?  " 

That  was  an  absent-minded  schoolroom  phrase. 

"  Yes ;  there  is  a  question  on  that  point,"  came  a 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION      199 

strong  pleasant  voice  from  the  extreme  end  of  the  hall. 
He  could  not  at  first  discern  the  lady,  for  she  did  not 
rise.  "  Do  you  really  believe  all  this  twaddle  you  are 
giving  us,  or  are  you  just  '  parroting  '  from  a  book?  " 

The  very  young  ladies  laughed  gayly.  The  rascals ! 
They  had  been  taking  notes  on  all  his  golden  utterances  ; 
yet  they  turned  in  glee  to  search  out  the  rebellious  ques- 
tionist.  The  elders  buzzed  their  horror ;  but  they,  too, 
squirmed  about,  curious  to  behold  the  cause  of  so  inhos- 
pitable an  interruption. 

"  Oh,  never  mind,"  the  voice  boomed  out  patiently. 
"  It's  a  hopeless  thing  to  ask  anyone." 

She  arose  to  go.  Everyone  could  see  the  command- 
ing figure  and  the  perfect  smile  of  good  nature  which 
half  atoned  for  the  rather  shocking  speech. 

"  Go  on,  little  man,"  she  nodded.  "  You're  giving 
them  what  they  want,  I  suppose  " —  waving  an  arm 
over  the  audience  — "  or  what  they  are  trained  to  believe 
they  want.  Perhaps  they  deserve  it,"  she  laughed. 
"  But  I'm  a  little  sorry  for  you  " ;  she  turned  to  the 
speaker  directly,  as  she  gathered  up  her  belongings ; 
"  you  look  like  the  sort  who  could  do  better  —  with  a 
little  honest  tutoring." 

"  Don't  go,  my  dear  lady,  I  beg  of  you,"  Blynn  called 
after  her.  Lecturers  soon  get  used  to  eccentric  de- 
baters from  the  floor ;  although  this  one  was  decidedly 
of  uncommon  mould.  She  stopped  at  the  door. 
"  Please  come  back  —  let  us  reason  together.  If  you 
don't  mind,  I  don't.  You  can't  imagine  what  a  great 
relief  it  is  to  get  an  interruption." 


200  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

She  watched  Bljnn  good  naturedly,  wavering  be- 
tween the  desire  to  speak  and  the  feeling  of  the  futility 
of  saying  anything. 

Blynn  went  on  coaxingly. 

"  You  stir  my  male  curiosity  deeply.  All  my  life  I 
have  been  respected  and  revered,  treated  like  a  special 
shipment  of  something  valuable.  You  cannot  know 
how  lonely  I  have  been.  Why,  even  my  students  re- 
spect me." 

She  wavered.  Already  she  had  dropped  her  muff 
into  a  rear  seat. 

"  I  can't  tell  you  how  eager  I  am  to  be  exposed," 
Blynn  smiled  engagingly  and  waved  a  welcoming  hand. 
"  Do  come  back  and  let  us  dispute  as  did  Plato  and  his 
friends;  amicably,  if  possible,  but  always  in  the  name 
of  high  truth.  .  .  .  You  were  saying,  O  Unknown 
One." 

"  I  was  saying  what  was  in  my  mind,  O  Knowing 
One,"  she  replied.  "  But  I  am  sorry  now  that  I  spoke. 
Your  question  seemed  to  touch  a  spring  —  the  spring 
of  '  high  truth.'  High  truth,  I  fear,  is  a  rude,  uncivil- 
ized thing  —  most  of  us  keep  it  thoroughly  well  guarded 
—  I  apologize  for  employing  it  here.  But  — "  she  fas- 
tened him  with  her  motherly  smile,  "  please  don't  talk 
so  confidently  of  the  dull  pleasures  of  the  mob.  Per- 
haps, as  you  suggest,  Browning  and  Swinburne  touch 
only  the  ultra-violet  mind ;  talk  about  that,  it  is  within 
your  sphere ;  but  until  you  know  more  about  people,  let 
the  mob  alone.  To  know  the  secret  you  have  to  be  a 
mob  yourself.  .  .  .  Forgive  me  for  talking  straight  out, 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION     201 

Professor.  It  is  an  uncultivated  thing  to  do,  I  know ; 
but  it  is  right  in  the  spirit  of  the  mob,  one  of  its  dull 
pleasures.  ...  I  must  go.  ...  If  I  stay  I'll  break 
out,  and  then  someone  would  have  to  read  me  the  riot 
act.  .  .  .  You're  a  first-rate  book,  Professor ;  I  should 
enjoy  you  —  on  a  shelf;  but  you  have  never  really 
been.  Goodby." 

Of  course  Blynn  turned  the  event  to  account  and 
made  several  quick  epigrams  out  of  the  affair. 

"  The  audience  cheered  my  little  sallies,"  he  wrote, 
"  which  I  accepted  as  proof  of  their  regard  —  a  vote  of 
confidence,  as  it  were,  after  a  thundering  attack  from 
the  opposition.  Everyone  apologized  and  told  me  that 
I  had  handled  the  situation  with  proper  urbanity.  No 
one  seems  to  know  her.  She  is  not  a  member  of  the 
Alpha  Women's  Club.  But  I'm  glad  she  spoke  out ;  to 
tell  the  truth,  my  dull  lecture  was  boring  even  me !  " 

The  newspapers  got  a  story  out  of  the  interruption ; 
and  for  a  nine-days  the  cartoonist  played  up  professors 
and  "  the  dull  pleasures  of  the  mob."  One  of  the  hits 
in  a  touring  musical  comedy  company  had  its  source 
here. 

"Are  you  happy,  Mike?" 

"  Sure,  perfesser,  I'm  happy ;  ain't  I  got  a  head- 
ache!" 

Gorgas  wrote  a  single  sentence  of  disapproval  of  the 
lady's  rudeness  and  in  postscript  inquired,  "  How  old 
is  she?" 

And  Blynn  came  back  with  an  imitation  of  the  laconic 
note. 


202  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 


.. 


Dear  Gorgas:     She  was  not  rude,  but  enchanting. 
"  P.  S.     She  is  as  old  as  truth,  which  is  ever  young 
and  beautiful." 

The  "  Lady  "  came  in  for  occasional  notice  in  nearly 
every  letter.  "  The  *  Interruption,'  "  he  wrote,  "  has 
had  a  disturbing  effect  on  me.  Somehow  between  my 
audiences  and  myself  the  phantom  smile  of  the  unknown 
mocks  me,  although  I  haven't  seen  her  again.  When  I 
speak  confidently  out  of  my  store  of  book-knowledge 
the  smile  seems  to  broaden  into  a  grin ;  but  when  I  quote 
Aristotle  or  Plato,  it  positively  laughs  in  derision." 

In  public,  he  explained,  he  had  come  to  be  consciously 
on  the  defensive.  He  began  to  avoid  book  authorities 
and  seek  illustration  from  his  slender  personal  experi- 
ence of  men  and  things.  Occasionally  she  drove  him 
to  take  off  his  glasses  and  look  about  him.  In  his  off 
hours,  instead  of  burrowing  in  the  library,  he  walked 
about  the  streets  and  observed  the  throngs.  He  wan- 
dered along  the  aisles  of  department  stores,  chatted 
with  policemen,  and  elbowed  workmen  in  the  trolley 
cars ;  sat  hi  the  public  squares  and  talked  with  the  old 
men  who  sun  themselves  there  daily,  and  with  the  young- 
ish tramps,  down  at  the  heel  and  beery. 

Once  he  had  wandered  on  a  wharf  where  excursion- 
ists were  about  to  embark  for  a  brief  trip  down  the 
river.  A  rosy  mother  was  struggling  with  a  huge  pic- 
nic basket  and  a  medley  of  children.  She  let  him  help 
her  with  the  next  youngest  baby,  while  the  husband 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION      203 

with  two  toddlers  was  surging  ahead  to  secure  a  good 
seat.  Before  Blynn  had  quite  made  up  his  mind  what 
to  do  next,  the  boat  had  slid  off  into  the  stream  and  he 
was  in  for  a  first-hand  experience  of  the  "  dull  pleasures 
of  the  mob." 

It  was  pleasure,  he  had  to  admit  some  hours  later, 
but  by  no  means  dull.  He  exhausted  all  the  slot  de- 
vices for  chewing  gum  and  chocolate,  weighed  the 
kiddies  on  all  the  machines,  invested  wholesale  in 
lemonade  and  bananas,  and  actually  waltzed  to  the 
strains  of  a  harp  and  one  violin.  At  Houston  Park 
they  swooped  down  upon  the  carrousel,  captured  places 
on  the  scenic  railway  by  vulgar  bribery,  and  eventually 
"  set  'em  up  "  to  a  dessert  of  "  hoky-poky"  ice-cream, 
as  part  payment  for  a  share  of  the  basket  lunch. 

The  young  husband  permitted  all  this  gallantry  with- 
out surprise.  Indeed,  in  the  twilight  trip  homeward 
Blynn  and  he  sat  together  in  the  stern  of  the  boat  and 
smoked  out  a  fine  friendship  —  one  exhausted  kiddie 
asleep  content  in  the  professor's  arms  —  and  there  it 
was  he  paid  Blynn  the  fine  compliment  of  inquiring 
where  he  "  worked." 

"  At  Holden  College,"  Blynn  replied,  guiltily  waving 
a  hand  in  a  vague  professional  manner,  the  which  his 
companion  seemed  to  take  as  the  motions  of  mopping  a 
floor. 

"  Purdy  soft,  hey?  "  he  grinned. 

"  Tolerable,"  said  Blynn. 

"  Women  do  all  the  scrubbin',"  he  volunteered. 


204.  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

*'  Aye,  and  they  do  it  well,"  Blynn  told  him. 

"  An'  all  summer  nothin'  to  do  at  all !  "  he  mused. 
"Purdy  soft!  Purdy  soft!" 

He  looked  at  Blynn  proudly,  as  if  the  securing  of 
such  a  sinecure  was  in  itself  a  worthy  act. 

"  I  express  for  Hamilton's,"  he  confided.  "  Furni- 
ture vans,"  he  added  in  answer  to  an  inquiring  look. 
"  Some  days  we  jess  *  move,'  but  most  times  we  hussels 
pianos.  Y'back  feels  it  nights,  I  tell  y'.  But,  y'  sleeps 
good." 

"  Ah !  "  Blynn  said.  "  I  envy  you  there.  I  don't 
*  sleep  good '  at  all.  Half  the  night  I  lie  awake  think- 
ing of  foolish  unnecessary  things." 

"  Y'  ain't  got  no  work  to  do !  "  the  expressman  spoke 
with  emphasis.  "  It'll  give  any  man  the  bug-eye. 
What  you  want  is  a  reg-u-lar  job.  What  you're 
a-doin',  that's  a  woman's  business.  Oh,  I've  tried  my 
hand  at  cinches  —  grass  cutting  drivin'  a  wagon,  takin' 
the  dog  out  walkin'.  Made  me  sick.  I  got  to  put  guts 
in  my  job.  That's  what  you  need  —  a  job  y'  got  to  put 
guts  in." 

As  the  talk  grew  confidential  at  parting  he  let  the 
professor  lend  him  five  dollars  without  the  shadow  of  a 
protest.  There  was  nothing  squeamish,  self-conscious 
or  over-modest  about  the  expressman.  "  Sure ! "  he 
said  and  pocketed  the  bill  without  more  ado.  He 
treated  Blynn  so  like  an  equal  that  the  university  man 
stalked  off  elated  as  if  he  had  just  been  admitted  to  an 
exclusive  fraternity. 

It  was  through  such  wild  adventures   that  Blynn 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION     205 

graduated  to  a  deed  of  daring.  One  cool,  spring  Sat- 
urday night  found  him  strolling  along  the  badly  lighted 
streets  of  a  section  known  as  "  The  Ditch."  The 
swinging  doors  of  an  odorous  "  saloon,"  backed  by  a 
glaring  warm  light,  which  made  the  dark  street  a  shade 
dimmer,  seemed  to  bid  a  "  Welcome  All ! "  He  went 
in. 

The  faces  of  the  lounging  drinkers  at  the  bar  were 
worth  many  times  the  small  admission  fee,  the  price  of  a 
strangling  glass  of  ginger  ale.  They  were  like 
characters  in  a  modern  Morality  Play,  Blynn  thought, 
as  he  named  them  in  order :  "  Simple,"  thin  nose, 
hanging  lip  and  lack-lustre  eye ;  "  Low-brow,"  a  rogue 
by  right  of  inheritance ;  "  Toothless,"  a  boy  with  the 
face  of  a  crone ;  "  Evil,"  selfish  to  the  point  of  cruelty ; 
"  Braggart,"  serious  and  self-contemplative ;  "  Sloth," 
simply  fat. 

Speech  was  gone  to  a  mumble;  cackles  of  laughter 
arose  over  nothing  at  all;  futile  drivel  slavered  from 
the  chin. 

"  'S  my  treat  —  godda  drink  'th  me ! "  fumbled 
"  Simple,"  displaying  a  bill. 

The  well-groomed  barkeep  and  owner  swept  it  off 
into  his  resplendent  cash-register  and  began  the  swift 
passing  out  of  the  accustomed  drinks.  Blynn's  second 
ginger-ale  was  slid  beside  him  before  he  could  guess  the 
meaning  of  the  action. 

And  so  treating  went  the  rounds.  Here  and  there 
pay-envelopes  were  opened  and  tossed  on  the  counter 
with  bravado.  To  Blynn's  amazement  the  alert  bar- 


206  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

keep  boldly  kept  the  change  of  those  who  were  too  far 
gone  to  protest.  When  "  Evil  "  called  blasphemously 
for  his  money  the  barkeep  roared  with  delight  and  spun 
the  coins  out  from  behind  a  concealed  glass. 

"  Thought  I'd  got  you  that  time,  Pete  !  "  he  shouted 


No  one  seemed  to  notice  that  Blynn's  pile  of  ginger 
ale  was  untouched.  He  had  resolved  not  to  be  a  party 
to  the  disgusting  custom.  So  he  was  about  to  pay  his 
little  bill  and  depart,  when  an  almost  inarticulate  solilo- 
quy from  "  Evil,"  the  least  sodden  of  the  lot,  stopped 
him  short  and  sent  his  head  aflaming. 

"  Wife's  sick  'gin,  dam  'er.  ToV  'er,  break  'er  head. 
WUl  break  'er  head  w'enna  g'  home.  Las'  night  —  las* 
night  —  'noth'  dam  brat.  .  .  .  Allus  havin'  dam  brats. 
.  .  .  Locked  'er  up;  'did.  Tol'  'er,  break  'er  head. 
Will  break  'er  head  w'enna  g'  home." 

He  went  on  with  this  maudlin  talk,  to  which  no  one  at- 
tended. Ordinarily,  Allen  Blynn  looked  on  the  miseries 
of  the  poor  with  a  mild  professorial  eye.  The  world 
is  a  horrible  place  for  some  folks,  "  a  darkling  plain 
where  ignorant  armies  clash  by  night";  no  remedy  is 
nigh  ;  we  must  sigh  in  pity  and  pass  on  to  our  own  com- 
pelling tasks. 

But  this  fellow's  story,  which  he  enlarged  upon  until 
there  was  no  doubt  of  his  meaning,  Blynn  viewed  in  no 
spirit  of  philosophic  calm.  Perhaps  the  alcoholic  air 
of  the  place  had  got  into  his  vitals,  and  had  stirred 
them  ;  perhaps  that  hidden,  scourging  priest  within  him 
had  broken  forth  to  battle  with  the  evil  one  ;  perhaps  the 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION     207 

Lady  had  made  him  realize  that  he  lacked  something  of 
being  a  man :  at  any  rate,  he  strode  up  back  of  that  vil- 
lainous beer-sop  and  spun  him  about  so  that  his  back 
leaned  at  an  angle  against  the  bar  and  his  feet  spread 
out  in  front  of  him. 

"  Where  do  you  live?  "  Blynn  darted  the  question  at 
him  so  fiercely  that  he  answered  automatically. 

"  Twenty-six  Hogan  street,"  he  growled,  then  slid 
heavily  and  sat  down  in  the  gutter  before  the  bar. 
From  this  posture  he  hurled  weak  curses. 

The  barkeep  leaped  adroitly  across  the  bar,  shoved 
Blynn  aside  with,  "  Here  you !  Get  out  o'  this. 
Tryin'  to  start  somethin'?"  while  he  jerked  his  cus- 
tomer to  normal  human  posture. 

"  Evil  "  reached  for  a  glass  and  hurled  it  at  random. 
The  shot  slid  him  down  again  into  the  gutter ;  the  glass 
fell  wide  with  a  glorious  crash.  "  Low-brow  "  seized 
a  bottle,  but  was  too  weak  to  hold  it.  It  slipped  to 
the  floor,  almost  an  echo  of  the  other  smash.  "  Simple  " 
came  up  behind,  with  only  the  friendliest  intentions,  no 
doubt,  and  put  one  beery  arm  about  the  professor's 
shoulder.  Blynn  turned  swiftly  at  the  heavy  touch  and 
embraced  him  —  without  love,  one  may  be  sure  — 
thereby  projecting  upon  his  shirtfront  the  full  contents 
of  that  beer-mug,  a  cavernous  vessel  holding,  at  least,  a 
quart.  The  vile  odor  was  a  lasting  memory. 

The  embrace  had  been  a  clumsy  thing,  but  the  divorce 
was  swift  and  artistic.  As  Blynn  instinctively  shoved 
"  Simple  "  forward  —  the  cold  beer  against  the  chest 
gave  impetus  to  the  push  —  the  barkeep's  grip  on 


208  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Simple's  "  collar  sent  him  spilling  backward.  On  the 
way  he  carried  "  Toothless  "  with  him.  "  Sloth  "  never 
even  looked  around;  he  leaned  comfortably  against  the 
bar  and  mumbled  in  his  beer. 

All  these  movements  Blynn  watched  with  interested 
eyes,  caught  every  sound  as  if  it  were  data  for  a  book. 
One  half  of  his  mind  was  a  spectator,  cool,  undisturbed, 
careless  of  the  outcome,  concerned  only  with  the  specta- 
cle ;  the  other  was  saying  over  and  over  again,  "  26 
Hogan  street!  26  Hogan  street!"  and  it  was  throb- 
bing with  rage. 

"  Here's  my  money  for  one  glass  of  ginger  ale," 
Blynn  confronted  the  barkeep.  "  And  I  want  my 
change  —  all  of  it,  do  you  hear !  You've  robbed  every 
drunken  sot  in  the  room  except  that  vile  cur,"  pointing 
to  "  Evil "  still  sprawling  in  the  gutter  before  the  bar. 
"  I've  seen  you  steal  their  money  out  of  their  pay- 
envelopes.  Give  me  my  change,  you  viper ! "  He 
slapped  a  twenty-five  cent  piece  on  the  sopping  counter. 
"  Give  me  my  change,  you  bloodsucker,  you  poisoner, 
you  — " 

"  Git  out ! "  the  barkeep  yelled  as  he  rushed  at  him. 
"Git  out!" 

He  yelled  much  more.  He  told  Blynn  things  con- 
cerning his  past  that  were  biologically  impossible  and 
made  prophetic  assertions  about  the  future.  His 
speeches  were  wild  enough  but  his  actions  were  genuinely 
savage.  Before  Blynn  could  get  into  any  proper  pugi- 
listic position  the  barkeep  had  welted  him  across  the 
side  of  the  head  with  a  huge  fist. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION      209 

The  Lady  had  called  him  a  first-rate  book !  A  book? 
Not  much ! 

It  would  be  a  pleasant  thing  to  say  here  that  Allen 
Blynn  had  trained  in  his  youth  with  a  football  team 
or  that  he  had  taken  recent  boxing  lessons  from  Cor- 
bett's  sparring  partner.  The  truth  is  that  his  physical 
condition  was  only  that  of  an  abstemious  "  professor  " 
the  spry  side  of  thirty,  who  jogged  daily  about  the  gym- 
nasium track,  or  pulled  a  few  perfunctory  chest-weights, 
just  to  give  edge  to  the  evening  meal.  But  that  unex- 
pected blow  on  the  side  of  the  head  maddened  him  and 
summoned  triple  strength. 

In  one  spring  he  had  that  barkeep  by  the  throat  and 
had  carried  him  to  the  floor  over  the  sprawling  legs  of 
"  Simple."  Seizing  him  by  his  flap  ears  he  was  fiercely 
pounding  his  head  against  the  floor,  when  he  found  him- 
self lifted  in  the  air  by  two  bluecoats,  turned  about  and 
sent  forward  at  a  fearful  angle,  through  the  swing- 
doors,  into  the  darkened  alley  of  a  street.  As  he  went 
out  someone  smashed  the  side  of  his  head  with  a  bottle, 
and  he  always  maintained  the  theory  that  an  officer  near 
the  door  had  assisted  accurately  with  a  boot ;  but  his 
greatest  joy  as  he  sprawled  on  the  pavement  was  the 
feeling  —  later  discovered  to  be  an  illusion  —  that  he 
still  held  in  his  hands  the  remains  of  the  barkeep's  ears. 

On  the  way  to  26  Hogan  street  he  laughed  and  sang 
and  exulted  in  strange  words.  Before  his  mind  he  sum- 
moned the  barkeep  and  that  Satan's  limb,  "  Evil,"  and 
invited  them  to  "  Come  on !  "  Names  he  called  them, 
mouthfilling,  rhythmic  cadences ;  anathema  that  never 


210  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

had  been  in  his  vocabulary  before,  but  which  every  man 
who  has  mingled  with  other  men  knows  by  instinct. 

And  she  had  called  him  a  book ! 

By  'phone  and  messenger,  help  was  brought  to  "  26 
Hogan  street."  They  broke  in  the  locked  door,  con- 
veyed the  sick  woman  to  the  care  of  good  nurses,  clean 
linen  and  real  food.  Her  little  brood  they  kept  with 
her,  and  so,  in  this  one  instance  out  of  many,  lightened 
the  dark  hours  of  the  very  poor.  Blynn  confessed 
with  shame  that  before  this  experience  he  had  not  really 
known  of  their  existence. 

Soon  after  the  groggery  episode  Professor  Blynn 
was  scheduled  for  a  banquet  speech  at  the  annual  meet- 
ing of  a  local  Drama  Club.  The  subject,  selected  long 
before,  was  "  Realism  in  Modern  Dramatic  Art  and  the 
Decadence  of  True  Fantasy."  Certain  notes  which  he 
had  put  lovingly  together  for  that  evening  were  not 
at  all  consulted  as  he  talked.  The  musty  references  to 
Freytag,  Horace,  and  Boileau  did  not  suit  his  mood. 
He  could  not  get  out  of  his  mind  some  of  the  stirring 
realities  of  the  life  about  him ;  so,  casually,  and  without 
any  deep  professional  manner,  he  talked  of  the  material 
near  at  hand  out  of  which  great  dramas  might  come. 
He  drew  on  his  most  recent  stores.  For  stage  setting 
he  preferred  the  blinking  steamboats  on  the  dark  river, 
crowded  with  returning  excursionists,  and  humming 
with  harp  and  violin ;  for  characters,  "  Simple,"  "  Low- 
brow," "Evil,"  "Toothless,"  "Braggart,"  "Sloth"; 
and  for  theme,  The  Birth  of  New  Life  in  the  Houses 
of  Failure. 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION 

The  newspaper  boys  were  bent  on  putting  him  back 
on  the  first  page  —  he  grinned  inwardly  at  the  story 
he  really  could  give  them !  That  is  why  they  condensed 
the  remarks  of  really  important  speakers  and  put  Al- 
len Blynn  forth  almost  verbatim. 

Out  of  it  all  he  got  one  dubious  result,  a  letter. 

"  You  are  getting  on,  my  dear  Professor,"  it  began 
abruptly,  without  heading  or  date  line.  "  You  are  no 
longer  a  book;  you  have  developed  into  a  newspaper. 
Eventually,  you  may  become  wholly  human.  Press  on." 

It  was  signed,  "  The  Lady  of  the  Interruption,"  a 
title  he  remembered  he  had  given  her  when  reporters 
had  interviewed  him  about  her  on  her  first  startling  ap- 
pearance. 

At  various  times  these  and  other  exciting  adven- 
tures were  dictated  to  the  impersonal  stenographer-by- 
the-hour  and  mailed  to  the  Levering  family. 

"  The  anonymity  of  the  Lady  distresses  me,"  he 
wrote  once.  "  If  I  could  put  my  whole  case  before  her, 
X  am  sure  she  would  give  me  a  higher  rating.  For  al- 
ready one  of  my  friends  of  the  Public  Square  benches 
has  found  me  out  and  successfully  negotiated  the  loan 
of  a  dollar.  Let  someone  try  to  get  an  unearned  dollar 
out  of  any  *  newspaper.' ' 

And  that  was  not  all.  His  companion  of  the  ex- 
cursion steamer  —  the  male  —  had  caught  him  on  the 
campus,  where  no  doubt  he  had  been  lying  in  wait,  and 
had  sold  him  tickets  for  the  annual  Expressmen's  Ball. 

"  Perfes'r  — "  he  began. 

"  But  I  am  the  janitor ;  am  I  not?  "  Blynn  smiled. 


THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Am  I  not !  "  he  mimicked,  "  '  Am-I-not '  ain't  never 
been  no  janitor.  .  .  .'Am  I  not!'"  he  got  a  deal  of 
amusement  out  of  the  phrase.  "  Knew  y'  was  a  pro- 
fess'r  all  the  time.  Wharf  watchman  tol'  me.  Said 
you  was  a  smart  gab-fester,  too.  He's  heard  you  —  a 
Socialist,  he  is." 

"  Lately,"  wrote  Blynn,  "  he  has  been  seeking  my  ad- 
vice on  a  number  of  family  matters,  leading  up  to  hints 
for  loans.  An  unkempt,  overgrown  daughter  came  to 
my  rooms  yesterday  with  a  note.  I  was  stone-cold ;  but 
it  almost  made  me  ill. 

"  And  now  '  Evil '  has  found  me  out.  He  objects  at 
the  hospital  because  of  my  card  on  a  bunch  of  roses; 
and  threatens  to  sue  me  for  personal  assault ;  I  presume 
he  will  complete  the  charge  by  adding  alienation  of  his 
wife's  affections!  A  book  I  may  have  been,  raised 
thence  to  a  daily  journal,  but,  Leverings  all,  I  appeal  to 
you  for  promotion ;  assault  and  alienation  are  right  hu- 
man qualities. 

"  Faithfully  yours, 

"  Allen  Blynn. 

"  I  am  on  the  trail  of  the  Lady." 

The  Leverings  agreed  that  the  "  Lady  of  the  Inter- 
ruption "  was  a  delightful  mystery  —  all  except  Gor- 
gas ;  but  she  said  little  at  home.  She  put  the  case  to 
Bea  Wilcox,  and  to  Bardek. 

"What  do  I  think  of  her?"  Bea  echoed  her  in- 
quiry. "  I  think  she's  no  lady  at  all." 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION      213 

"  That's  what  I  think.     I  — "  Gorgas  began  eagerly. 

"  I  think  she's  a  Brass  Image,"  said  Bea. 

"  It  is  so ! "  Bardek  agreed  solemnly,  who  knew 
nothing  of  the  subtile  English  meanings  of  "  brass." 
"  And  it  is  before  such  images  that  men  do  often  bow 
in  worship.  If  she  is  young,  as  you  say,  and  if  she  come 
to  the  man  and  fight  him,  then  it  is  the  female  hunting 
the  male  for  herself." 

"  What  are  you  driving  at,  Bardek?  "  Bea  broke  in. 
"  Females,  as  you  call  them,  don't  hunt  males.  It's  the 
other  way  about."  She  put  her  arm  around  Gorgas 
and  rocked  back  and  forth  in  a  characteristic  attitude. 
"  We  know  —  us  girls  know  —  don't  we,  Browny  ?  " 

"  Oh,  yes ! "  Bardek  had  open  contempt  for  Bea's 
mind.  "  You  talk  like  most  peoples  who  do  not  see  any- 
thing. Look  at  all  the  hats  of  women  1  Dead  birds 
and  painted  flowers  and  rags  and  wires!  Ugly? 
Phuh !  But  zey  do  not  see  zat  zey  are  ugly.  So ! 
When  you  will  want  your  man,  you  will  go  to  him  — 
like  all  t'others  —  and  you  cry  out  to  him  that  you  are 
here;  and  he  will  not  come  at  first;  and  zen  you  will 
wear  crazy  clothes,  and  dance  and  beat  a  drum  until  he 
must  see  you.  And  all  the  time  you  will  not  know  that 
you  do  that.  You  will  not  see.  .  .  .  But  how  you  will 
beat  zat  drum !  " 

"  Professor  Blynn  would  not  listen  to  her  1 "  Gorgas 
announced  irrelevantly.  Her  mind  was  on  the  Lady  of 
the  Interruption ;  there  was  defiance  in  her  tone,  a  note 
of  challenge  to  the  unknown  trespasser,  none  of  which 
was  lost  on  Bardek.  He  shaded  his  bushy  brows  a 


214  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

trifle,  and  he  gazed  thoughtfully  into  her  flushed  face  as 
if  he  had  suddenly  discovered  something  new  and  in- 
teresting there ;  but  he  gave  no  other  sign  of  what  might 
be  his  own  surmises. 

"  Do  you  think  so,  Bardek  ?  "  she  persisted. 

"  No-o,"  he  hesitated ;  "  not  at  the  first."  A  smile 
began  to  flutter  across  his  face ;  then  he  roared  in  sud- 
den laughter.  "  He  is  so  far  up  —  at  the  top  of  the 
Heaven!  How  she  must  beat  her  little  drum  for  to 
make  Saint  Acetum  to  hear !  " 

"  Who  is  Saint  Acetum  ?  "  both  girls  asked. 

Bardek  sobered  abruptly.  "  You  do  not  know 
Saint  Acetum  ?  "  he  asked  gravely. 

No ;  they  did  not  know.  Saints  were  not  in  fashion 
any  more.  This  is  not  the  Middle  Ages,  Bardek.  But 
they  should  be  ashamed,  nevertheless,  he  told  them,  and 
scolded  beautifully.  Then  he  explained: 

"  Saint  Acetum  it  is  who  is  forever  repairing  ze  roof 
of  ze  Heaven.  Can  you  not  see  him  up  there  —  far 
superior  in  altitude  to  all  the  angels  of  Heaven,  and 
slowly  feeling  zat  he  is  superior  ?  " 

But  what  had  Saint  Acetum  to  do  with  Mr.  Blynn? 

*'  Ho !  "  cried  Bardek.  "  Mr.  Blynn,  he  is  so  good ! 
Like  Saint  Acetum  he  is  worried  zat  ze  roof  of  ze 
Heaven  may  fall  down ;  so  it  is  zat  he  is  always  fixing, 
fixing;  and  he  will  not  listen  even  when  ze  good  angels 
call  to  come  down  and  be  for  a  little  time  happy.  .  .  . 
And  you  have  not  heard  of  Saint  Acetum?  Nom  du 
nom!  And  you  are  not  ashamed  of  zat?  " 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION     215 

"  Acetum?  "  repeated  Bea.     "  What  a  funny  name." 

"  '  Acetum,'  it  is  '  vinegar  ,'  "  Bardek  explained. 
"  Zat  is  Latin,  Miss  Bea,  of  which  you  know  nothings, 
because  you  have  gone  to  school  — " 

"  Oh,  we  had  Latin  in  school ;  didn't  we,  Browny  ?  " 

"  Zat  is  what  I  say,"  nodded  Bardek  firmly.  *'  You 
know  nothings.  What !  You  do  not  know  about  Saint 
Acetum,  ze  Vinegar  Saint ;  you  do  not  know  —  Bar- 
dek burst  suddenly  into  ironic  laughter  — "  because  it 
is  I,  Bardek,  who  have  jus'  made  him  up  out  of  my 
head ! " 

"  Oh ! "  laughed  Gorgas,  somehow  relieved  at  the 
thought  that  the  Vinegar  Saint  was  merely  an  inven- 
tion of  Bardek.  "  Allen  Blynn,  the  Vinegar  Saint ! 
That  is  too  funny ! " 

"  So  you  see,"  Bardek  was  exulting  in  his  cleverness, 
"  how  she  must  beat  her  little  drum,  that  Lady,  to  draw 
down  Saint  Acetum,  who  is  always  repairing  ze  roof  of 
ze  Heaven  ?  " 

Gorgas  was  sobered  instantly.  "  Do  you  think  that 
woman  is  trying  to  marry  Mr.  Blynn?  "  she  asked  anx- 
iously. 

"  No,"  Bardek  replied,  while  he  watched  her  out  of 
half-closed  eyes ;  "  I  do  not  say  so  much.  I  think  she 
do  not  know  what  she  do.  But  she  is  vairy  interested 
—  oh,  vairy  interested  —  in  the  nice  young  man. 
She  do  not  like  him?  Oh,  no!  But  she  go,  and  go; 
and  she  talk  and  she  write.  In  all  the  great  big  world 
there  is  but  one  reason  for  that.  The  little  roots  of 


216  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  weeds,  zey  shove  and  push  and  work  and  zey  do  not 
know  why,  but  one  day  zey  come  out  where  is  water ; 
and  zen  zey  know  why." 

"  It  is  terrible ! "  the  words  escaped  Gorgas  invol- 
untarily. It  gave  her  an  inexpressible  sensation  of 
illness  to  think  of  mon  capitaine  at  the  mercy  of  so 
irresistible  a  force. 

"  Oh,  no ! "  laughed  Bardek ;  "  it  is  not  terrible. 
No!  It  is  vairy  wonderful  and  le  bon  Dieu,  he  has 
made  it  so !  " 

Le  bon  Dieu!  Ah,  no !  It  could  not  be  from  heaven, 
or  why  should  the  very  thought  of  it  torment  her? 

She  went  home  to  nights  of  acute  distress  and  days 
of  smiling  mockery.  She  listened  to  all  sorts  of  in- 
quiries about  her  health,  parried  the  questions  with 
vague  fibbings;  but  she  knew  the  cause  of  the  storm 
that  raged  within. 

Then  came  a  night  of  resignation.  She  surprised 
herself  —  and  blamed  herself,  too  —  at  her  easy  re- 
covery. What  powers  of  adaptability  we  have!  The 
deepest  grief  is,  somehow,  assuaged.  If  it  was  to  be; 
it  was  to  be.  She  found  herself,  one  day,  laughing  at 
herself.  A  fortnight  later,  she  was  lost  in  the  prepar- 
ation for  her  graduation  from  The  Misses  Warren's 
Select  French  and  English  School  for  Young  Ladies. 
The  sorrows  of  seventeen  are  not  fatal.  Yes ;  she  was 
quite  herself  now,  marvelling  only  occasionally  at  the 
turbulence  that  had  shaken  her. 

And  therein  she  deceived  herself,  as  all  of  us  con- 
tinually do.  She  was  quite  her  serene  self  —  so  she 


THE  LADY  OF  THE  INTERRUPTION      217 

thought.  We  know  so  little  about  ourselves,  about 
what  we  think,  about  what  we  want,  even  about  what 
we  are  doing.  We  talk  much  —  confidently ;  we  de- 
claim, make  speeches,  deny  vehemently,  or  affirm  with 
hand  upraised :  but  deep  within  us,  like  a  Hidden  River, 
flows  the  unconscious  life.  When  it  wells  to  the  sur- 
face we  know  it  for  the  first  time,  cry  out  in  fear,  or 
exult.  When  it  subsides  we  say,  "  It  is  not  there ! " 
We  are  poor  witnesses,  with  all  our  boastings  and 
modesties,  poor  witnesses  either  for  or  against  our- 
selves. 

"  I  wonder  where  my  roots  are  going? "  Gorgas 
asked  herself.  For  answer  she  dropped  the  consider- 
ation of  the  width  of  ribbon  she  would  wear  on  her 
graduation  dress  and  sat  down  to  write  a  letter  to 
Allen  Blynn.  It  was  a  burst  of  personal  confession 
—  the  Hidden  River  was  welling  very,  very  near  the 
surface !  —  and  most  particularly  she  told  him  about 
the  "  Brass  Image,"  and  warned  him.  Then  she  read 
it  over  and  destroyed  it. 

"  Oh,  I  guess  I'm  not  brassy  enough,"  she  said  and 
shook  her  head. 


BOOK  THREE 

The  Call  to  be  Free 

It  was  all  very  well  to  say,  "  Drink  Me,"  but  the  wise  little  Alice 
was  not  going  to  do  that  in  a  hurry:  "No,  I'll  look  first,"  she 
said,  "  and  see  whether  it's  marked  poison  or  not."  .  .  .  She  had 
never  forgotten  that  if  you  drink  much  from  a  bottle  marked 
*'  poison,"  it  is  almost  certain  to  disagree  with  you,  sooner  or  later. 


XVI 

RATS! 

THE  Levering  spring-house  had  long  ago  gone 
to  pieces  to  furnish  part  of  the  masonry  of  a 
new  workshop,  designed  by  Bardek  and  built 
by  Mac,  with  everybody  assisting.     They  picked  a  spot 
at  the  north  of  the  orchard,  where  the  light  was  right, 
and  distant  enough  from  habitation  to  allow  for  the 
most  riotous  hammering.     A  great  chimney  with  both 
hand-   and   foot-bellows   forge   was   the   center   about 
which  the  one-story,  roomy  structure  spread. 

The  Leverings  hardly  knew  what  was  going  on. 
They  had  this  satisfaction,  however:  Gorgas  was  on 
her  own  grounds,  Mac  was  always  within  hail  and 
Bardek,  his  wife,  and  the  two  shining-eyed  youngsters 
had  so  won  the  affection  of  everyone  that  they  were 
added  as  theoretic  protectors.  When  young  men  called, 
they  sauntered  around  to  the  cozy  shop,  looked  on, 
smoked  at  their  ease  and  drank  continuous  tea  and  ate 
toasted  muffins.  Kate  often  spent  mornings  there,  pot- 
tering over  punched  brass,  and  thinking,  to  the  pan- 
tomimic disgust  of  Bardek,  that  she  was  a  workman, 
too.  But  no  one  seemed  quite  aware  that  a  serious 
art  was  being  studied  in  that  busy  quarter. 

Mrs.  Levering  began  to  get  inklings  of  the  deep  na- 

221 


222  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

ture  of  the  undertaking  when  a  big  order  for  a  com- 
plete hand-wrought  silver  service  was  finished,  dis- 
patched, and  the  check  forwarded.  Bardek  had  been 
the  business  manager  in  securing  that  and  other  orders 
which  followed,  and  he  had  overseen  the  designing  and 
had  plotted  out  the  work ;  but  the  labor  and  the  return 
were  placed  entirely  to  Gorgas'  account. 

"  My  dear  child,"  the  mother's  eyes  focused  agree- 
ably upon  the  amount.  "  This  is  dreadful !  You're 
actually  making  money !  Are  you  sure  you  are  not 
taking  advantage  of  someone?  How  could  a  little  girl 
like  you  earn  so  much?  " 

But  she  soon  accustomed  herself  to  that  sort  of 
thing,  and  promptly  let  Gorgas  take  out  a  separate 
bank  account,  and  thriftily  watched  the  amount  swell. 
It  was  quite  proper,  she  assured  herself,  for  a  girl  to 
make  money,  provided  she  stayed  at  home,  and  pro- 
vided, too,  it  was  something  respectable,  like  —  uh  — 
art.  Of  course,  this  metal  business  was  art;  at  least, 
the  silver  part  was  —  she  was  somewhat  dubious  over 
the  copper,  really,  the  most  artistic  accomplishment  of 
the  shop ;  and  the  settings  of  copper  and  semi-precious 
stones,  the  hand-wrought  gold  rings  —  that  was  art 
and  respectable.  She  wished,  of  course,  that  there  were 
no  necessity  for  the  ugly  forge  and  for  the  heavy  mallet- 
ing;  but  then,  that  was  all  done  in  the  secluded  shop 
away  from  the  street.  To  think  that  all  this  silly  pot- 
tering had  turned  out  to  be  worth  something!  What 
a  wonderful  adviser  was  Allen  Blynn !  When  she 
thought  of  the  pleasant  checks,  she  was  grateful  that 


RATS !  223 

she  had  been  too  busy  at  the  time  to  oppose  the  build- 
ing of  the  shop. 

But  in  spite  of  the  obvious  fact  that  Gorgas  was  able 
to  earn  her  own  way,  the  mother  continued  to  keep  a 
controlling  hand,  as  if  the  child  were  still  a  toddler 
needing  protection,  and  not  an  independent  young 
woman  of  seventeen:  her  letters  had  still  to  be 
O.  K.'d,  the  hours  of  retiring  were  not  to  be  changed, 
and  the  other  claims  of  womanhood,  the  style  of  gown 
and  hat  and  the  mode  of  wearing  the  hair —  these  were 
still  matters  of  maternal  jurisdiction.  And  being  the 
younger  daughter  she  had  more  mothering  —  as  is  often 
the  case  —  than  Kate,  who  had  long  ago  secured  her 
rights  to  do  as  she  pleased. 

There  were  suggestions  of  rebellion  and  occasional 
flurries  of  attack  and  retreat.  At  seventeen,  Gorgas 
had  gained  her  right  to  give  all  her  mornings  to  the 
"  smitty,"  as  the  shop  was  locally  dubbed ;  she  had  won 
out  in  her  right  to  play  tennis  and  hockey,  to  bicycle 
and  —  an  ability  discovered  by  Bardek  —  to  fence. 

"  Why  can't  you  just  ride  or  drive  and  take  walks?  " 
the  mother  had  complained.  "  These  other  games  are 
so  boyish  and  '  tough,'  my  dear.  They  give  you  a 
color  like  a  hoyden  —  positively  I  was  ashamed  of  you 
last  Wednesday  at  dinner  —  and  you  have  a  stride  like 
a  young  rowdy.  Of  course,  I  can't  tell  you  it's  not 
ladylike.  I  see  that  has  no  effect  upon  you;  but  you 
might  consider  how  I  feel  when  you  walk  through  the 
streets  in  that  tennis  costume  —  I  suppose  one  might 
call  it  a  costume.  In  a  boy  it  is  all  right ;  young  Morris 


224  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

is  quite  attractive ;  but  you,  you  look  positively  unsexed, 
Gorgas  —  I'm  almost  ashamed  to  use  the  word.  And 
really,  my  dear,  I  must  object  to  your  putting  off  stays. 
You  will  never  come  around  if  you  don't  begin  early. 
Your  figure  is  —  well,  is  there  no  proper  womanly  argu- 
ment that  can  reach  you  ?  " 

"  Health,  first,  mother,"  Gorgas  would  say  firmly. 
"  I  work  hard  all  morning,  I  practice  at  music,  to 
please  you,  and  I  must  keep  up  my  reading.  Then, 
open  air  for  me  and  a  stiff  fight  and  a  shower.  That 
makes  me  sing;  makes  me  fit  to  do  things.  I  wouldn't 
have  an  original  design  in  my  head  if  I  cooped  up  like 
most  women.  They  are  talking  about  voting!  I'm 
with  them  there,  but  good  Heavens!  they  could  be  en- 
franchised tomorrow  if  they  could  only  break  loose  and 
live  a  decent,  wholesome  life." 

The  severest  quarrel  was  over  clothes.  Gorgas'  ar- 
tistic sense  was  a  deep-rooted  thing.  She  protested, 
but  without  result,  against  the  slave-like  selection  of 
"  what  everybody  was  wearing."  Women  seemed  to  be 
uniformed  like  a  squad  of  infantry,  irrespective  of  in- 
dividual build  or  personal  taste.  That  repelled  her. 
Not  that  she  wanted  to  do  anything  eccentric;  it  was 
just  her  desire  to  be  inconspicuous  that  led  to  a  wish 
to  study  herself  and,  within  the  restrictions  of  the  pre- 
vailing vogue,  to  clothe  herself  true  to  her  own  personal 
note. 

Blynn  had  walked  with  her  on  one  of  his  rare  holi- 
days home  —  lecturing  usually  kept  him  busy  in  vaca- 
tion time  —  when  she  was  driven  out  of  herself  and  into 


RATS !  225 

stolidity  by  the  mere  fact  of  an  outrageous  puffed- 
sleeve  affair,  over  whicli  her  mother  had  spent  hours  of 
selecting.  To  Gorgas,  it  was  like  wearing  some  other 
person's  clothing.  She  had  gawked  about,  submerged 
in  self-consciousness;  and  her  chagrin  she  expressed  in 
vindictive  attacks  on  the  unoffending  Allen. 

Gorgas  resolved  to  end  it  then  and  there.  One  after- 
noon in  February,  1893  —  Gorgas  was  seventeen  and 
a  half,  but  felt  tremendously  older  —  she  interviewed 
the  chief  cutter  of  a  smart  Walnut  street  tailoring  es- 
tablishment and  outlined  to  him  her  plans  for  a  series 
of  frocks  and  coats  that  made  his  eyes  glisten.  She 
produced  a  check  for  part-payment,  and  made  it  per- 
emptorily clear  that  her  own  ideas  were  to  prevail  or 
no  sale. 

"  Mother,  I've  ordered  some  spring  clothes,"  she  let 
the  news  out  bluntly.  "  I  won't  stand  being  dressed 
and  undressed  and  being  put  to  bed  any  longer.  You'd 
better  get  used  to  the  idea,  for  it's  to  be  the  thing.  I'm 
paying  my  way  now  and  I've  got  to  go  it  on  my  own." 

And  then  she  left  immediately  for  the  "  smitty." 

Those  were  stormy  days  in  the  Levering  family,  but 
the  disturbance  was  all  from  the  elders.  Gorgas  was 
serene  and  calm.  They  were  sure  Gorgas  would  adopt 
some  reckless  fashion  that  would  put  them  down  before 
everybody,  probably  a  bifurcated  skirt  or  an  out-and- 
out  Dr.  Mary  Walker  attire.  There  was  much  talk 
in  the  air  at  that  period  of  boldly  abolishing  the  dress 
distinction  of  sex.  But  when  Gorgas  appeared  before 
them  one  afternoon  in  a  neat,  inconspicuous,  tailor- 


226  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

made  gown,  right  as  to  style,  but  with  a  mysterious 
wonder  in  it  of  something  just  beyond  the  style,  the 
family  capitulated.  Capitulated?  They  broke  ranks 
and  rushed  over  one  another  to  cheer  the  enemy. 

Mount  Airy,  after  all,  had  always  been  a  country 
village.  Its  main  charm,  in  spite  of  its  nearness  to  a 
large  city,  was  not  its  suburbanity,  but  its  rurality. 
And  it  was  well-known  that  the  most  careful  copying 
by  Mount  Airyites  of  the  designs  in  Godey's  "  Lady 
Book,"  would  always  be  crude  and  home-made  when 
compared  with  exactly  the  same  pattern  worn  by  the 
city  ladies  who  could  be  seen  any  day  moving  in  and 
out  of  certain  exclusive  in-town  shops.  The  distin- 
guishing difference  is  not  so  much  one  of  material  as 
of  art. 

In  that  apparel  Gorgas  could  have  argued  the  fam- 
ily out  of  its  house  and  grounds.  Oh,  the  subtle  over- 
powering authority  of  the  right  gown!  It  will  give 
strength  to  weakness,  add  courage  to  the  natural 
craven,  and  overawe  even  Lizzie-in-the-kitchen.  If  I 
were  a  physician  I  would  make  most  of  my  prescriptions 
on  the  blanks  of  proper  tailors.  Most  women  are  not 
ill,  they  are  simply  inadequately  gowned ;  their  strength 
is  oozing  away  through  the  terrible  struggle  to  feel 
better  than  they  look.  And  it  is  not  primarily  a  ques- 
tion of  money ;  it  is  a  matter  of  taste  and  intelligence. 

The  young  men  responded  instantly  to  the  new  touch. 
They  didn't  know  how  it  had  happened,  but  the  news 
passed  quickly  along  that  Gorgas  Levering  was  "  all 


RATS !  227 

right."  Callers,  formal  and  informal,  of  all  ages  from 
sixteen  to  thirty-five,  dropped  in  or  begged  permission, 
according  to  the  type.  The  "  smitty,"  on  Thursday 
afternoons,  became  a  sort  of  rendezvous  for  all  this 
fluttering  group.  Work  and  play  were  declared  off, 
and  the  reception  of  guests  was  in  order.  Mrs.  Lever- 
ing occasionally  dropped  in,  in  her  capacity  as  over- 
seer, but  Kate  was  always  present,  the  mother's  viceroy  ; 
and  Bea  Wilcox  and  a  few  of  Gorgas'  intimates ;  and, 
of  course,  Bardek. 

Here  they  sang,  chatted  and  danced  as  the  mood 
seized.  And  on  clear,  summer  afternoons  there  was 
always  the  tennis-court  and  the  shadowy  orchard;  in 
winter  there  was  hockey  and  skating  on  the  Wissahickon 
at  Valley  Green,  or,  more  often,  roastings  and  toast- 
ings  before  the  huge  log  fire  in  the  "  smitty." 

Gorgas'  permanent  exhibition  of  unsold  work  brought 
other  visitors.  These  came  at  all  times.  Usually,  it 
was  Bardek's  business  to  do  the  explaining  and  the 
selling,  a  duty  he  loved,  and  some  of  the  customers  be- 
came regular  visitors  and  eventually  slipped  over  into 
the  Thursday  afternoon  group.  Not  that  the  Thurs- 
day afternoon  group  could  be  kept  away  at  other  times. 
Gorgas  rather  welcomed  the  opportunity  to  chat  while 
she  worked,  but  she  always  worked  —  except  once. 

One  Thursday  in  April  Morris  took  Gorgas  aside  and 
asked  if  he  couldn't  come  the  next  day  in  the  morning 
and  have  a  private  talk  with  her. 

She  looked  him  over  suspiciously. 


228  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  We've  been  partners  for  a  long  while,  Neddie,"  she 
summed  up  her  look.  "  This  sounds  mighty  strange 
and  mysterious.  Give  me  a  hint  beforehand.  What's 
up?" 

"  Can't  do  it  here,"  he  scowled  at  the  crowd.  "  I'll 
be  in  at  about  eleven.  What  d'y'  say  ?  " 

"  How  absurd  you  are,"  she  held  him  off  to  search 
his  face.  "  You  know  anyone  may  see  me  at  any  time." 

"  I  know,"  he  hastened  to  explain  awkwardly  in  the 
midst  of  the  chatter  and  movement.  "  This  is  differ- 
ent. This  is  something  —  I  can't  tell  you  here." 

"  Well,"  she  patted  him  on  the  arm,  "  come  along, 
sonny.  You'll  have  to  talk  loud.  I've  got  a  special 
fine  lot  of  hammering  to  do  that  won't  wait." 

That  night  she  tossed  about  and  brought  herself  to 
book. 

Morris  had  been  behaving  lately  in  a  way  they  do 
before  they  begin  to  go  to  pieces  and  become  temporary 
asses  in  the  presence  of  their  Titania.  He  had  lost  his 
fine  spirit  of  camaraderie.  He  had  been  glaring  at  his 
fraternity  pin,  which  Gorgas  used,  like  a  dozen  other 
such  articles,  to  adorn  the  dress  it  best  suited.  He  had 
been  moody  and  listless  —  the  usual  symptoms ;  and  he 
had  been  hanging  about  like  a  stupid. 

Try  as  she  might  she  couldn't  get  a  thrill  out  of  the 
thought.  Ned  Morris  was  a  brother;  that  was  all;  a 
splendid  chum,  the  sort  of  fellow  you  get  terribly  used 
to  and  wouldn't  give  up  without  a  fight.  But  anything 
else  —  Horrors !  It  was  profanation  of  friendship  to 
think  it. 


RATS !  229 

Nevertheless,  she  enjoyed  the  prospect  of  an  adorer. 
It  gave  her  the  most  unaccountable  feeling  of  elation 
and  self-pity  and  yearning  and  depression  —  all  enjoy- 
able sensations,  every  one.  It  attacked  her  so  hard 
that  she  arose  at  sun-up,  ate  no  breakfast,  and  let  the 
metal  work  slide. 

"You  do  not  work  today?"  Bardek  looked  up  from 
his  bench,  where  he  was  inlaying  a  hair-like  design  of 
silver  in  the  softest  copper. 

"  Nope." 

"  You  are  sick,  may  be?  " 

"  Goodness,  no !  " 

Hammer,  hammer,  hammer. 

"  Goin'  to  jus'—  loaf,  eh?  " 

"  Rather." 

Hammer,  hammer. 

"  Ah !  you  fight  the  French  revolution  all  over  again 
with  the  mother?  "  he  guessed.  "  Borne!  borne!  Down 
will  go  t'e  Bastile.  Huzza!  Out  come  the  prisoners 
—  little  ladies  who  t'eir  mutters  have  boxed  up !  Vive 
la  revolution  des  jeunes  filles!  " 

Hammer,  hammer,  hammer. 

"What?"  he  looked  up. 

"  Wrong  tack,  Bardek.     Take  in  a  reef." 

"Eh?     What?" 

"  And  let  down  your  jib." 

"  Norn  du  nom!  What  language  you  talk?  "  Tap, 
tap,  tap.  "  Somebody  come,  eh?  " 

"  Yes ;  Morris." 

"  Ho-ho-o-o ! "  softly,  as  much  as  to  say,  "  So  that's 


230  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  way  the  wind  blows."  "  Ho-ho-o-o !  "  louder,  mean- 
ing, "  I've  been  suspecting  that  boy."  "  Ho-ho-o-o ! " 
very  wisely,  with  a  glance  that  said,  "  I  understand 
what's  in  your  little  head,  missy !  " 

"Oh,  rats!  Bardek." 

She  arose  and  tried  a  few  strokes,  but  soon  gave  it  up. 

"  Perhaps  Morris  he  would  take  share  in  partner- 
ship? "  Bardek  inquired  with  grotesque  sympathy. 

"  Rats !  "  she  called  back. 

"  R-rats !  "  Bardek  laughed  as  he  tapped.  "  Rats 
—  it  is  the  meaning  of  what  ?  When  I  say,  '  How 
beautiful  is  Miss  Gorgas,  this  morning,'  Miss  Gorgas 
say,  '  Rats ! ' —  that  is  to  say,  *  Thank  you  so  much 
for  compliment.'  When  I  say, (  She  work  too  hard,  she 
must  play  more,'  Miss  Gorgas  say,  '  Rats ! ' —  that  is 
to  say,  'Do  you  think  I  small  child,  eh?'  If  I  say, 
*  When  you  going  marry,  Miss  Gorgas  ?  '  Miss  Gorgas 
say,  *  Rats ! ' —  which  is  to  say, '  Shut  up,  you  ol'  fool, 
and  mind  own  business.'  It  is  vairy  convenient;  one 
nice,  little  word  do  for  everything.  It  mean,  '  I  don't 
believe  you ' ;  it  mean,  *  Go  bag  your  head ' ;  it  mean, 
'  Not  on  your  tin-type.'  Jus'  now  it  mean,  '  Mr.  Mor- 
ris will  talk  to  Miss  Gorgas  on  vairy  important  matter. 
Ol'  Bardek  better  take  holiday  and  fix  more  w'ite-wash 
in  his  house.' ' 

"  Rats !  Bardek,"  she  stopped  him.  "  Stay  where 
you  are.  I  don't  want  to  seem  to  be  clearing  everybody 
out  for  Ned  Morris.  If  we  want  to  talk  privately, 
we'll  go  into  the  orchard.  It's  warm  enough  out- 
side." 


RATS !  231 

Bardek  grinned  so  openly  that  she  was  forced  into 
some  sort  of  explanation.  She  talked  earnestly  and 
Bardek  affected  to  be  perfectly  guileless. 

"Morris  is  just  a  good  friend,  Bardek;  not  a  thing 
more.  Not  a  thing  more." 

"  Rats ! "  roared  Bardek,  suddenly  slipping  from 
earnest  solicitude  into  loud  irony.  "  Oh,  I  love  that 
nice,  easy,  little  word.  It  saves  so  much  breath.  I 
say,  *  Rats ! '  and  I  mean,  oh,  a  whole  lot.  With  one 
word  I  say,  '  Don't  you  be  telling  me  all  that  foolish- 
ness about  friend  business  and  all  that.  The  friend 
business  is  all  played  out.  It  had  one  grand  failure, 
long  ago,  when  Adam  thought  he  try.  Mr.  Morris,  he 
just  like  Adam.  He  hang  'round  'while  and  watch  ani- 
mals and  sleep  in  the  sun.  Then,  one  day  he  wake  up 
and  he  say  he  want  nice,  long  talk,  all  alone ;  and  Eve, 
she  dress  up  in  nice  clothes,  she  can't  work,  can't  ham- 
mer, can't  sit  down,  can't  walk,  can't  do  one  thing 
but  look  and  look  and  look  at  not'ing  at  all,  and  say, 
'  Rats ! »  All  that  for  one  little  word !  " 

"  Double  fault,  Bardek ;  you're  putting  too  many  in 
the  net." 

That  was  one  way  thoroughly  to  mystify  the  earnest 
student  of  English.  Bardek  studied  hard,  but  never 
succeeded  in  getting  the  hang  of  American  sporting 
terms.  "  Get  a  good  lead !  Go  down  with  his  arm ! 
Two  out;  play  for  the  batter!  68-22,  through  left- 
guard  !  "  These  phrases  seemed  to  have  meaning  to 
Americans,  but  not  one  spark  of  intelligence  was  in 
them  for  the  many-languaged  Bohemian. 


232  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  I  put  too  many  into  the  net?  "  he  repeated.  "  T'e 
English  cannot  be  one  of  my  native  speeches,  but  when 
I  see  all  these  nice  — "  he  drawled  it  into  something  like 
"  nah-ees " — "  young  boys  flying  so  like  butterfly 
'round  Miss  Gorgas  I  zink  she  do  not  put  one  into  the 
net!" 

Gorgas  was  busy  sorting  out  some  long  branches  of 
fresh  willow  for  a  corner  decoration.  She  looked  over 
sideways  at  Bardek,  who  tapped  away  with  the  air  of 
a  man  who  has  made  a  hit.  But  she  silenced  him. 

"  Play  in,  boys ;  he's  going  to  bunt,"  she  remarked 
and  watched  with  satisfaction  the  grin  fade  from  Bar- 
dek's  face  and  in  its  place  appear  the  rapt  expression  of 
a  puzzled  linguist. 

"  What  is  this  — '  bunt '?  "  he  asked  at  last,  his  mind 
completely  off  guard. 

"  It  is  an  unexpected  bingle,  Bardek,  that  puts  the 
infield  in  the  soup,"  she  explained  serenely  as  she  left 
the  "  smitty  "  for  more  willow  branches. 


XVII 

AN    UNEXPECTED    BINGLE 

FOR  awhile  Bardek  tapped  away  and  struggled 
with  the  slang  of  the  '90's.  " '  Bingle,'"  he 
murmured  and  shook  his  head.  "  *  Bunt,' 
*  Soup,'  I  have  lost  the  art  of  taking  in  languages.  I 
grow  old.  My  cerebellum  turns  to  that  same  *  soup.' ' 

Bardek  sighed,  a  genuine  old-fashioned  sigh,  full  of 
undefined  longing.  Uncomfortable  feelings  swept  over 
him,  whose  source  he  knew  not. 

"Norn  de  la  manne  celeste!"  he  ejaculated,  putting 
down  his  hammer.  Wide-eyed,  he  gazed  out  of  the 
window  toward  the  fast  budding  maples.  It  was  a 
French  day,  sans  doute.  "Spring!"  he  exulted  aloud 
in  the  appropriate  language.  "  How  it  is  ever  beauti- 
ful, the  spring.  In  France,  best  of  all,  but  even  here 
in  Mount  Airy  it  is  good,  the  spring.  In  my  old  trunk 
the  sap  goes  up,  up,  and  spins  my  thoughts  about.  I 
am  full  of  ideas  in  the  spring,  little  shoots  of  thinking 
and  buds  and  leaves  of  grand  notions.  How  I  can  do 
things  in  the  spring !  "  But  he  stood  listlessly  gazing. 
"  Do  ?  Bah !  I  can  do  nothing  but  dream  of  what  I 
can  never  do ;  .  .  .  but  it  is  good." 

Slowly  his  mind  drifted  to  Gorgas  and  then  back  to 

233 


THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  starting  point  of  their  conversation.  His  face 
lighted  up,  beamed  with  sympathy. 

"  So,  that  is  what  it  is ! "  he  chuckled.  "  He  is  a 
good  fellow,  Neddie.  Nice,  clean  American  fellow. 
But  he  is  only  boy  wit'  face  like  girl.  How  young  is 
all  America!  When  I  was  twenty  I  was  man.  I  had 
been  in  army.  I  had  learned  my  work  in  life.  I  had 
seen  the  world.  Now  I  am  forty  and  old  man.  All  the 
little  American  children  of  thirty,  forty,  fifty, —  Pro- 
fessor Blynn,  Miss  Kate,  Mrs.  Levering,  they  all  come 
to  ask  me  what  to  do ;  me,  Bardek !  I  have  the  wisdom 
of  old  gentleman  about  to  sit  down  and  die.  Phoo-ee ! " 
He  puffed  out  a  big  breath  and  looked  joyfully  out  of 
the  window.  "And  I  am  ten  t'ousand  years  younger 
than  all  of  them  put  together." 

The  flooding  thoughts  of  spring  were  too  much  for 
Bardek.  He  doffed  his  apron,  put  his  tools  carefully  in 
their  racks  and  made  ready  to  get  out  into  the  open. 
He  hummed  like  a  prowling  bumble-bee  as  he  tossed 
things  about. 

"  Hello,  Bardek.  Where's  Gorgas  ?  "  Morris  spoke 
from  the  doorway. 

"Ah!"  Bardek  turned  jubilantly,  came  forward  in 
great  strides  and  shook  the  young  man  warmly  by  both 
hands.  "  She  is  here !  She  is  here !  "  he  exulted,  look- 
ing the  astonished  Morris  over  joyfully.  "  Jus'  you 
sit  yourself.  The  big  easy  chair  ?  No !  "  He  dragged 
forward  a  cushioned  settle.  "  Via!  It  is  the  best  for 
little  tete-a-tete.  Oh,  you  lucky  young  man !  To  have 
Miss  Gorgas  to  talk  to  all  alone.  See!  I  will  jus* 


AN  UNEXPECTED  BINGLE  235 

pull  down  this  window  thing,  as  —  Where  is  she,  that 
Eve  who  cannot  work  this  morning — "  He  looked 
anxiously  out  of  the  door  toward  the  orchard. 

"Can't  work?"  Morris  inquired.  "What's  the 
trouble,  Bardek?  111?" 

"  111?  "  Bardek  exploded.  "  Oh,  yes.  She  is  —  ho  ! 
—  yes,  it  is  a  disease,  vairy,  vairy  dangerous.  It  is 
good  to  get  it  early,  like  the  chicken-poxes  and  measles. 
Hey ! "  looking  at  him  curiously.  "  You,  Neddie ; 
don't  you  ever  feel  like  kicking  out  all  the  little 
life-businesses  and  rushing  out  into  woods  away  from 
every  one,  to  weep  and  laugh  and  sleep  and  swear 
and  pray?  Look  inside.  Close  your  eyes  and  look 
inside.  Have  you  not  got  terrible  voice  in  t'ere  what 
say:  Prenez  la  clef  des  champs!  Faites  Vecole  buis- 
sonniere!  Take  the  key  of  the  fields  and  play  truant 
in  the  woods !  .  .  .  Day  like  dese !  How  can  men  stay 
in  chicken-houses ! " 

He  slipped  out  of  a  workman's  blouse  and  ruffled  his 
hair  excitedly. 

"  That's  spring  fever,  Bardek,"  Morris  explained. 
"  Guess  I've  got  a  touch  of  it,  too."  He  yawned  and 
began  to  make  a  cigarette.  Then  he  turned  the  logs 
over  in  the  grate. 

"  Miss  Gorgas,"  Bardek  motioned  eloquently  toward 
the  orchard,  "  is  jus'  out  in  the  trees,  watching  young 
leaves  come." 

Bardek  struck  an  expectant  attitude. 

Morris  drew  the  settle  up  to  the  fire  and  picked  up 
a  book. 


236  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"The  spring  fever  have  made  you  dumb,  perhaps? 
I  say  she  is  jus'  out!  Two,  free  steps,"  he  looked  out 
of  the  window,  "  at  the  big  cherry  she  is  now  .  .  . 
eh?" 

"  Thanks,  Bardek,"  Morris  yawned  and  stretched  his 
legs.  "  I'll  just  smoke  and  read  a  little.  .  .  .  She'll 
be  back  presently,  I  suppose." 

The  Bohemian  stared.  Then  he  seized  a  huge  ham- 
mer and  smote  mightily,  like  Tubalcain  himself. 

"  Holy  mackerel,  Bardek !  "  Morris  turned,  laughing. 
"  This  is  only  a  stone  hut,  you  know.  .  .  .  What  y' 
making,  a  battleship  ?  " 

"  You  have  not  put  many  in  t'e  net  lately,  eh?  "  Bar- 
dek stopped  to  inquire  irrelevantly.  He  was  experi- 
menting with  the  new  phrases. 

"Oh,  my  full  share,  I  fancy.  What  makes  you 
ask?" 

Bardek  was  bitterly  indignant,  but  the  emotion  was 
lost  on  Morris*  back. 

"  I  though'  you  came  here  dis  morning  to,  ah,  bunt. 
What?" 

"Bunt?" 

"Yess.  .  .  .  Bingle." 

"Bingle?" 

"  Yess,  bingle." 

"  It's  lost  on  me,  old  man.  I  came  here  to  talk  to 
Gorgas." 

He  resumed  his  reading,  smoked  at  leisure  and  turned 
over  pages  carelessly.  Bardek  smote  one  vicious  blow 
and  exclaimed: 


AN  UNEXPECTED  BINGLE  237 

"  Then  you  don't  want  to  —  ah  —  get  in  the  soup 
wit'  Miss  Gorgas,  eh  ?  " 

"What?" 

Morris  swung  completely  around. 

"  You  have  spring  fever?  You?  Yah!"  Bardek 
ejaculated  his  disgust  in  unspellable  exclamations. 
"  Ah,  non!  non!  non!  non!  non!  You  are  lazy?  Yess. 
You  like  comfortable  seat  at  small  fire?  Yess.  But 
you  still  froze  up  like  dead  tree.  The  sap,  it  not  yet 
run  up.  I  tell  you,  *  Miss  Gorgas  is  in  orchard.'  You 
say,  *  Oh,  vairy  well,'  and  fix  nice  cushions  to  sit.  I 
say,  *  She  is  one,  two,  free  step  away.'  You  roll  ciga- 
rette and  read  book.  Nom  d'une  pipe!  How  you  sit 
and  smoke  when  live  woman  wait  for  you,  eh?  One, 
two,  free  step  at  the  big  cherry,  eh?  Name  of  a  pipe! 
Your  blood,  it  is  water !  Me,  I  go  out !  "  He  seized 
his  hat.  "  I,  I  am  yet  young,  alive,  and  sprout  green 
things.  I  'fraid  I  stay  and  catch  your  fever.  Spring 
fever?  Peste!  Nom  du  nom!  It  is  a  disease  of  the 
winter,  you  have,  my  friend." 

In  a  trice  Bardek  was  plunging  down  the  lane,  which 
led  to  Montgomery  county.  "  AiJ.  que  je  suis  un  petit 
oiseau,"  he  was  singing  gloriously. 

Gorgas  sat  in  the  sun  on  a  ben^h  under  the  bursting 
cherry  tree,  her  hands  clasping  her  knees  and  her  eyes 
wide  awake  and  staring.  Somehow,  that  morning,  her 
mind  would  not  advance  to  conclusions;  it  remained 
dead-locked  between  the  thought  of  Morris  and  all  that 
he  would  probably  say,  and  the  answer  that  she  knew 


288  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

she  must  make.  But  she  would  not  let  herself  decide; 
she  liked  to  play  with  the  idea,  to  toss  it  about  among 
the  possibilities,  view  it  from  strange  angles.  Marriage 
was  probably  just  this  sort  of  thing —  a  little  talk  with 
a  man,  an  agreement,  dresses,  the  march  up  the  aisle, 
and  years  together.  Anything  else  was  just  romance, 
the  stuff  one  makes  fiction  out  of.  Fiction !  How  well 
named ! 

But  it  was  not  the  way  she  dreamed  the  event  would 
happen.  Her  notion  of  felicity  was  much  more  strenu- 
ous and  fearsome.  At  any  time  she  wanted  she  could 
walk  into  the  "  smitty,"  say  "  Hello,  Neddie,"  and  end 
the  whole  business.  There  was  nothing  daring  about 
that.  But  shouldn't  there  be  something  to  be  afraid 
of? 

Her  man  should  surprise  her  —  she  thought  out  her 
best  theory;  she  had  several,  depending  on  the  mood! 
—  come  upon  her  at,  say,  twilight.  She  would  like  to 
see  his  staring,  laughing  face  peer  suddenly  over  her 
shoulder,  and  in  a  moment  find  herself  in  his  mad  grip. 
She  should  become  weak  with  positive  fright,  and  be  a 
little  afraid  of  him  all  her  life.  "  I  should  probably 
scratch  and  bite,"  she  thought,  "  but  he  must  laugh, 
and  perhaps  pinch  my  ear,  till  I  yelped  and  let  go." 

There  was  nothing  frightening  about  Neddie  Mor- 
ris. Well ;  one  had  better  go  in  and  have  it  over.  She 
would  offer  him  tea.  ...  If  he  drank  it  she  would  hate 
him.  Pshaw!  Life  is  just  tea  drinking,  after  all.  It 
spoils  one  to  dream  of  the  impossible.  .  .  .  Oh,  this 
spring  weather !  Ha-ho-hura !  .  .  .  Let  him  wait.  .  .  . 


AN  UNEXPECTED  SINGLE  239 

This  thing  has  to  be  thought  out.  Let's  see;  where 
were  we?  .  .  .  But  her  mind  hung  motionless. 

From  her  bench  she  could  see  Morris  lighting  a  ciga- 
rette ;  but  she  remained  and  basked  in  her  own  dreams. 
Some  things  are  better  the  longer  they  are  postponed. 
Those  cherry  buds  were  just  straining  to  get  out. 
Look  at  that  wise,  silly  robin  tugging  away  at  a  tuft 
of  string  tangled  on  a  stick!  Everything  was  unfold- 
ing and  getting  ready  for  new  life  —  even  Gorgas. 

Thundering  mallet  blows  came  from  the  '*  smitty." 
It  did  not  sound  like  Bardek.  Certainly  if  he  threw 
that  sort  of  reckless  force  upon  the  frail  lace-like  silver 
upon  which  he  should  be  working,  there  would  be  some- 
thing annihilated.  Perhaps  Morris  was  growing  im- 
patient. Well  —  she  hugged  her  knees  —  he  would 
have  to  wait.  She  couldn't  go  in  to  him  until  she  had 
made  up  her  mind  about  him. 

Why  should  one  ever  decide?  The  joy  of  living  is 
expecting.  Who  ever  wants  anything  he  gets?  Pos- 
session is  the  beginning  of  dissatisfaction.  Even  if  ex- 
actly the  right  man  .  .  .  exactly  the  right  man!  .  .  . 
should  be  waiting  in  the  "  smitty  "  it  would  be  better 
to  let  him  wait.  The  right  man!  Her  eyes  closed  as 
she  pictured  that  man,  sitting  expectant  in  the 
"  smitty,"  never  dreaming  she  was  so  near ;  oh,  the 
shivering  ecstasy  of  holding  him  there  forever  with  all 
his  story  yet  to  tell.  Into  her  memory  came  lines  from 
"  The  Grecian  Urn,"  which  she  and  Allen  Blynn  had 
learned  together;  with  eyes  still  closed  she  spoke  them 
reverently  aloud: 


240  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

".  .  .  happy  love! 
Forever  warm,  and  still  to  be  enjoyed, 

Forever  panting  and  forever  young; 
All  breathing  human  passion  far  above, 
That  leaves  a  heart  high-sorrowful  and  cloyed, 

A  burning  forehead,  and  a  parching  tongue." 

"  Hello,  Gorgas,"  Morris  blundered  upon  her. 
"What  are  you  mumbling?  Poetry?  Sounded  like 
something  with  jiggles  in  it.  Are  you  warm  enough 
out  here?  I've  got  the  shivers.  C-come  on  b-back  in 
the  *  smitty.'  We  can  t-talk  better  there.  C-come 
on." 

"Wait.  Please!"  she  begfid.  "Let's  don't  go 
back  just  yet.  The  —  uh  —  everything's  so  wonder- 
ful and  springy  out  here.  Don't  let's  talk  just  yet. 
Just  listen  to  the  sparrows." 

"Ug-g-g!"  he  shivered.  "  W-w-onderful  1-1-ittl-le 
p-p-pests.  How  do  you  s-s-tand  it?  Without  your 
c-coat,  too.  I'm  g-going  in." 

He  danced  a  clog  and  flapped  his  arms,  while  he 
sang: 

"  In  Ireland  I  was  a  blithering  lad, 
Yit  I  niver  had  said  I  had  more  than  I  had, 
But  when  I  set  sail  for  America,  Gad ! 

My  tongue,  it  started  to  wag! 
When  I  got  on  the  brig  I  lost  my  brogue, 
And  then  I  began  to  brag." 

"  Don't  do  that! "  she  snapped  suddenly.  He 
stopped.  "  You  look  ridiculous."  Then  penitently, 
"I  was  thinking  lovely  thoughts,  and  you  jarred  the 
picture.  .  .  .  Let's  go  in." 


AN  UNEXPECTED  SINGLE  241 

The  settle,  arranged  beautifully  before  the  fire,  made 
her  thoughtful.  He  started  for  it  and  beckoned  her  to 
follow,  but  she  let  him  take  the  huge  seat  alone. 

"  That  fire  is  too  warm  for  me  this  morning,"  she 
excused  herself  for  sitting  on  a  nearby  hassock,  where 
she  could  hug  her  knees  and  look  up  at  him.  In  that 
position,  while  he  talked  and  smoked  innumerable  ciga- 
rettes, she  watched  him  dreamily. 

There  were  few  finer  fellows  than  Ned  Morris,  she 
told  herself.  He  was  not  only  good  to  look  at  but  he 
was  a  good  "  pard  "  and  an  unequaled  sportsman.  He 
had  a  reputation,  too,  a  name  —  of  course,  that  was 
not  a  thing  to  consider,  yet  a  woman  likes  her  man  to 
be  known  for  right  qualities.  It  would  be  a  comfort 
to  have  folks  say,  "  Oh,  Ned  Morris,  the  tennis  Mor- 
ris? "  Rather  vain,  that;  but  there  are  a  hundred 
kinds  of  vanity,  and  some  are  virtues. 

"  What  I  wanted  to  see  you  about,  Gorgas,"  he  be- 
gan finally,  looking  suddenly  at  the  grandfather  clock 
in  the  corner  — 

"  Not  just  yet,  Ned,"  Gorgas  protested  quietly. 
"  Tell  me  about  the  Boys'  Club  dinner  first.  I  under- 
stand it  went  off  like  a  Bellevue  spread." 

Goodness !  It  was  almost  out,  and  then  it  would  be 
all  over,  a  pretty  little  dream  spoiled  by  waking.  Why 
are  men  so  straightforward  and  possessing?  Of  course, 
she  liked  them  best  when  they  came  selfishly  demanding 
things.  Meek  ones  —  well,  they  might  inherit  the 
earth,  but  they  could  not  share  her  goods  and  chattels. 
.  .  .  Perhaps  they  would  have  to  give  up  being 


242  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

friends.  .  .  .  No  .  .  .  that  would  never  do.  .  .  .  She 
began  to  see  .  .  .  decision  was  slowly  coming  .  .  . 
rather  than  break  with  him  altogether  she  would  just 
take  him  over,  have  one  everlasting  final  row  with  the 
mater  and  decamp  for  — 

"  But  I  must  get  down  to  business,  Gorgas,"  he  sud- 
denly changed  the  topic.  "  What  I'm  going  to  say  to 
you  is  darned  hard  to  get  out,  so  I'm  just  going  to 
plump  it  at  you  like  — " 

She  leaned  forward  and  laid  two  nervous  hands  upon 
his  nearest  arm. 

"  Couldn't  you  —  couldn't  you  just  not  say  any- 
thing, Ned?  .  .  .  Couldn't  you  wait  until  —  tomorrow 
or  next  month  ?  " 

He  stopped  a  smoke-ring  in  the  act  of  being  launched 
and  looked  at  her  searchingly.  She  was  staring  up  at 
him  with  distress  in  her  brown  eyes. 

"  Why,  what's  the  matter,  old  girl  ?  "  he  inquired 
solicitously.  "  I  don't  believe  you're  feeling  fit,  today. 
If  you  say  so,  I'll  cut  out."  He  arose,  but  she  still  sat 
watching  him.  "  Awfully  sorry  if  I've  blundered 
around  here  when  —  I  might  have  noticed  you  were  not 
working  today.  Of  course,  I  wanted  to  talk  this  thing 
out  with  you.  It's  got  to  be  done  —  and  mighty  soon, 
I  can  tell  you.  But,  if  you  think  the  other  way,  why, 
I'll  just  drop  it  for  awhile.  .  .  .  But  gee!  I  did  so 
hope  I  could  get  this  thing  settled.  ..." 

"  I  think  I  know  what  you  are  going  to  say,  Ned," 
she  arose,  too.  "  And  I'm  going  to  let  you  say  it.  I 
couldn't  make  up  my  mind  until  this  minute.  You  are 


AN  UNEXPECTED  BINGLE  243 

right;  it  must  be  settled  now.  It  wouldn't  be  fair  to 
you  to  wait  another  day.  .  .  .  Go  on." 

"  Don't  see  how  you  knew,"  he  wondered,  "  unless 
Bea  told  you." 

"Bea?     BeaWilcox?" 

"  Yes,"  he  went  on  hurriedly.  "  It's  the  fraternity 
pin.  I've  got  to  let  the  cat  out  of  the  bag,  I  suppose. 
It's  a  dead  secret  yet.  Bea  and  I  have  about  agreed 
to  —  uh  —  make  it  up.  Uh  —  you  know  what  I  mean. 
Been  keeping  it  rather  dark,  of  course.  She  hasn't 
quite  come  over  yet.  .  .  .  She  doesn't  seem  to  under- 
stand about  the  '  frat '  pin.  .  .  .  Thinks  it  means  a  lot 
of  nonsense.  I  offered  her  another,  but  she  won't  take 
it.  Says  a  girl  who  wears  a  man's  '  frat '  pin  is  as 
good  as  engaged  to  him,  and  all  that  sort  of  stuff. 
What  I  want  to  know  is  —  oh,  this  is  a  rotten  thing 
to  have  to  say  —  what  I  thought  was  that  you  wouldn't 
mind  giving  it  back  and  sort  o*  explain  things  to  Bea. 
She  got  real  nasty  over  it,  flared  up  and  —  what's  the 
matter?  By  George!  You  are  ill;  aren't  you? 
Shan't  I  send  for  somebody  or  something?  " 

Gorgas  was  on  the  settle,  her  face  buried  in  her 
hands,  and  laughing  hysterically.  Gasps  and  volleys 
of  laughter  followed  in  quick  succession. 

"  Oh,  Neddie !  "  she  cried,  "  you've  played  a  cracker- 
jack  joke  on  me.  Oh!  oh! "  she  breathed  hard  in  the 
endeavor  to  recover.  "  You've  given  me  —  a  —  pain  on 
the  inside.  ...  I  thought  —  good  heavens,  will  I  ever 
get  over  this !  "  She  sat  up  with  an  effort  and  dried  her 
laughing  eyes.  "  I  thought  all  the  time  it  was  me  you 


244  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

wanted!  You  looked  so  silly  .  .  .  and  .  .  .  mooney 
.  .  .  and  I  was  ready  to  give  you  the  mitten.  ...  I 
think  I  was.  You  got  me  so  flabbergasted  and  senti- 
mental, I  don't  know  what  I'd  have  done.  It  made  me 
so  sorry  for  you  I  was  almost  ready  to  cry  .  .  .  and 
now  .  .  ."  she  went  off  again.  "  I'll  get  a  bad  cold 
from  this,"  she  sniffed  at  a  ball  of  handkerchief.  "  Oh, 
boy,  I  haven't  been  so  upset  and  turned  about  for  a 
dog's  age.  .  .  .  And  how  in  the  name  of  scandal  have 
you  kept  this  affair  so  dark?  I  see  Bea  every  other 
day  and  she  hasn't  blinked  an  eyelash.  The  she-fox! 
I'll  have  her  scalp  for  this." 

Morris  did  not  join  in  the  merriment.  He  grinned 
occasionally,  but  it  was  a  forced  grimace.  He  was 
looking  at  Gorgas  and  making  contrasts.  Gorgas  had 
always  seemed  just  a  good  chum,  but  suddenly  she 
seemed  to  have  put  on  sex.  To  add  to  the  humor,  he 
tried  clumsily  to  make  excuses  for  not  thinking  of  her 
in  a  more  complimentary  way.  Bea  teas  rather  stormy 
and  unreasonable.  And  Gorgas  was  growing  more 
stunning  every  day.  Doubts  began  to  assail  him. 

"  Don't  look  at  me  that  way,  Ned,"  she  expostulated, 
still  shaken  by  flurries  of  merriment.  "  That's  what 
fooled  me  lately.  That  moonstruck  gaze!  Oh!  You 
should  save  them  for  Bea.  No !  On  second  thought 
you  had  better  shoot  them  all  at  me.  .  .  .  Bea  might 
change  her  mind.  .  .  .  Now !  I  feel  better." 

She  was  touching  her  eyes  quietly,  and  Morris  was 
standing  above  her  looking  down  thoughtfully,  when 
Bardek  poked  a  cautious  head  in  the  door.  Seeing  all 


AN  UNEXPECTED  SINGLE  245 

quiet,  he  attempted  to  steal  across  the  room  to  the 
corner  where  he  kept  a  bludgeon  of  a  stick,  which  he 
loved  to  carry  with  him  on  his  walks. 

Gorgas  caught  him  in  the  act  of  skipping  through 
the  door. 

"  Come  back  here,  you  truant,"  she  called. 

He  looked  in,  smiling  knowingly. 

"  All  settled  up  ?  "  he  inquired  mildly. 

"  Yes,"  Gorgas  smiled  back.     "  Everything  O.  K." 

"  O.  K.,"  he  hummed.     "  So  he  bunt?     Eh?  " 

Nobody  answered. 

"  When  you  take  you'  w'ite-wash  house,  eh  ?  " 

"  But  he  didn't  bunt,  Bardek,"  she  laughed  mis- 
chievously. 

"Not  bunt?  Then  why  everything  —  O.  K.?"  he 
demanded. 

"  No,  Bardek,"  she  explained.  "  You  see,  it  was  this 
way.  I  played  in  for  a  bunt  — " 

"  You  played  in  for  a  bunt  ?     You !     I  see  that  — " 

"  But  instead  of  bunting,  he  biffed  one  on  the  nose  — 

"Biffed?  On  the  nose?  Qu'est-ce  que  c*est  que 
fa?  " 

"  Yes,  on  the  nose  for  a  homer." 

Bardek's  face  was  blank. 

"  In  other  words,  Bardek  — " 

"  I  hope  you  have  the  other  words,"  he  said  help- 
lessly. 

"  We  can't  agree  on  that  white-wash  business,  Neddie 
and  I.  So,  it's  all  off.  Game  postponed  on  account 
of  previous  engagement." 


246  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Phoo-ee !  but  how  glad  I  am !  Pos'pone !  "  Bar- 
dek  stamped  his  stick  on  the  floor.  "  How  glad  I  am ! 
First  I  thought  I  was  happy,  and  then  I  found  out  when 
I 'walk  through  the  woods  that  it  was  not  happiness. 
I  say,  *  It  is  not  happiness,  then  what  is  it  ?  Some- 
thing like  happiness;  it  make  me  laugh  and  jump  and 
cry  and  feel  hot  and  cold  and  glad  and  sick.'  Then 
I  find  out.  It  comes  to  me.  It  is  not  happiness  I  feel. 
It  is  misery.  You  —  nice,  clean  you  —  to  go  off  and 
give  up  to  small  boy  like  little  Neddie  here  who  don't 
know  nothing.  I  come  back ;  I  think,  maybe  if  I  see  him 
first  I  can  make  him  understand  that  he  mus'  wait  till 
he  grow  up  and  have  mind.  He  smoke  cigarette,  vairy 
good.  He  sit  down,  nah-eese;  he  read  book,  oh,  not 
bad  —  but  he  not  real  man  wit'  arteries  and  muscles 
and  hot  forge-fires  down  inside.  He  jus'  littl'  puppy 
that  play  wit'  tail.  .  .  .  But  I  come  back  and  all  is 
lovely.  .  .  .  Now ! "  he  seized  his  smudgy  blouse,  "  I 
can  work ! " 

He  snatched  his  hammer  and  bent  to  his  delicate  task. 
Meanwhile,  Gorgas  was  entering  into  the  plot  to  satisfy 
the  tyrannic  Bea. 

But  Morris  took  a  new  tack.  He  wasn't  sure  now 
that  he  wanted  the  old  pin  back.  Girls  shouldn't  be  so 
domineering.  They  needed  lessons,  sometimes. 

"  You've  upset  me,  Gorgas,"  confessed  Morris. 
"  I'm  just  finding  out  what  a  lot  I  think  of  you.  .  .  . 
Bea  and  I  —  well,  we're  not  so  sure,  either  of  us.  I  — 
perhaps  — " 


AN  UNEXPECTED  BINGLE  247 

"  Say !  "  called  Bardek.  "  What  you  mean  by  zat 
*  home-run  ' ;  eh  ?  " 

"  Just  you  watch  Ned  Morris,"  she  replied,  looking 
at  Ned  with  the  compelling  face  of  a  determined  mother. 
"  If  he  doesn't  make  one  without  so  much  as  another 
word  I'll  call  strikes  on  him.  .  .  .  One !  Two  — " 

"  I'm  off,"  laughed  Ned,  but  he  swung  his  hand  and 
wafted  a  suspicious-looking  salute  at  her. 

"  Now  for  work,"  said  Gorgas  firmly,  donning  her 
apron. 

But  instead,  she  looked  out  of  the  window  at  the 
robins  frantically  building  their  nests.  One  set  was 
at  work  just  above  in  the  eaves.  Most  interesting 
chaps;  so  energetic  and  serious.  The  silence  in  the 
shop  caught  her  attention.  She  turned  around.  Bar- 
dek, too,  was  leaning  over  his  bench  and  staring  at  the 
greening  world  outside. 

He  turned  swiftly  and  met  her  gaze.  One  depreca- 
tory glance  he  tossed  toward  the  idle  work-bench  and 
then  a  meaningful  sweep  toward  all  of  outdoors.  They 
both  stood  silent,  stirred  by  the  invitation  of  the  morn- 
ing; and  they  laughed  like  guilty  children  about  to  slip 
away  from  school. 

Suddenly  he  spread  out  his  hands  and  broke  into 
vehement  Italian. 

"  The  mother  is  calling  all  her  little  children,"  he 
protested.  "  Wise  old  Demeter  is  leaning  over  the  edge 
of  the  black  pit  of  Hell-mouth,  talking  love  talk  to  her 


248  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

daughter  Proserpina,  who  comes  forth  with  garlands 
and  sprigs  of  little  blossoming  things  and  all  the 
breezes  of  spring.  Come,  Proserpina  mia!  Let  us  do 
a  bacchanal  in  the  white  sunlight,  push  through  branch 
and  briar,  and  loaf  on  the  bare  earth  and  sing  the  song 
of  the  hour!  .  .  .  Come!" 

"Come?"  she  echoed.  "Let  someone  try  to  stop 
me.  Wait !  Just  wait  till  I  change  this  clumsy  skirt." 
Into  a  capacious  closet  she  shut  herself  and  in  half  a 
minute  sprang  forth.  *'  Comme  fa!  "  she  fell  into  the 
familiar  French.  "  We're  off !  I  feel  so  healthy  and 
strong  that  I  could  run  a  dozen  miles  without  taking 
a  long  breath." 

"And  I,"  cried  Bardek,  back  into  French.  "I? 
With  one  little  jump  —  so !  —  I  could  hop  over  the 
stars !  Come ! " 

He  tucked  her  arm  in  his  and  marched  out,  singing  of 
Le  Roi  D*  Yvetot,  that  jolly  old  king  who  lived  in 
a  mud  hut,  went  to  bed  early,  and  got  up  late,  who 
didn't  care  a  fippence  for  fame  or  reputation ;  his  crown 
was  a  cotton  cap  and  his  sole  bodyguard  a  lazy  hound. 

Through  the  orchard  they  trudged,  both  joining  in 
the  laughing  chorus, 

Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  la  la!  la! 
Oh!  oh!  oh!  oh!  ah!  ah!  ah!  ah! 
Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  la  la!  la! 


XVIII 

A    PARABLE    OF    IGNORANCE 

THAT  night  Gorgas  wrote  a  long  letter  to  Al- 
len Blynn.     It  was  so  unlike  the  usual  stilted 
newsletters  that  it  made  him  wonder.     The 
transition  between  child-like  scraps  of  information  and 
a    flowing,    spirited    communication,    was    absolutely 
abrupt,  as  if  she  had  been  holding  herself  back  all  this 
while  —  as    in    reality    she    had    done  —  assuming    a 
naivete  not  natural.     This  letter  was  a  splendid  per- 
sonal outpouring;  it  did  not  contain  a  single  reference 
to  the  doings  of  social  Mount  Airyites. 

The  theme  was,  Woman  and  her  desire  to  be  a  free, 
untrammeled  spirit,  to  express  herself  in  work  and  play, 
to  let  develop  whatever  was  within,  not  caring  what 
happens.  She  wished  she  had  the  courage  to  give  her- 
self free  rein,  she  told  him,  to  be  able  not  to  care  about 
the  opinions  of  others,  a  crushing  force,  and  so  find  out 
what  were  her  possibilities.  All  personal  development, 
all  development  of  peoples,  is  a  revolt  and  a  demand 
for  the  right  to  grow.  It  is  they  who  "  give  in  "  who 
eventually  give  up  and  become  stamped  with  the  mark 
of  a  caste.  One  must  have  room  to  expand,  even  if 
one  smashes  the  receptacle  which  holds  things  together. 

In  such  broad  generalization  she  summed  up  her  view. 

249 


250  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Her  own  character,  she  knew,  had  been  made  by  her 
little  rebellions.  Bardek  had  taught  her  the  meaning 
of  freedom ;  but  she  lacked  his  courage  to  be  really  her- 
self. "  You  don't  know  what  you  have  in  there,"  he 
would  often  say,  tapping  his  heart  and  his  head. 
'*  Only  God  knows,  who  gave  you  great  forces  to  use." 
She  was  seventeen  and  thoroughly  matured,  she  admit- 
ted, yet  custom  hardly  sanctioned  even  her  apparel. 
What  she  had  achieved  in  that  department  was  won  by 
fighting;  and  it  was  a  fact,  she  bore  witness  in  every 
daily  movement,  that  until  she  had  boldly  adopted  the 
costume  of  womanhood  she  had  not  been  able  to  think 
the  thoughts  of  woman.  So  small  a  thing  as  inches  on 
a  skirt  influenced  mightily  one's  very  thinking.  How 
strange  was  that;  but  how  much  more  powerful  were 
other  restrictions.  Until  one  accepted  freedom  and 
moved  forward,  there  was  a  stoppage  of  mental  growth. 

Many  things  she  would  like  to  do  but  dared  not.  At 
this  moment,  if  she  had  the  courage,  she  told  him,  she 
would  slip  into  a  travelling-gown,  pack  a  bag,  and  take 
a  sleeper  for  Holden.  In  the  morning  she  would  go 
straight  to  her  capitame,  Allen  Blynn,  have  breakfast 
with  him  and  spend  the  day  talking  anything  that  chose 
to  come  into  their  heads,  and  read  poetry,  and  let  the 
world  slip.  The  spring  air  had  done  this  thing  to  her 
—  she  knew  that ;  but  why  should  one  resist  the  call  of 
spring.  Cherry  blossoms  did  not  resist.  Neither  did 
the  veriest  worms.  All  night  long  Birchall's  dog  had 
barked  his  delight.  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  He  didn't  con- 
sider, "  Gorgas  Levering  is  trying  to  sleep ;  I  should  not 


A  PARABLE  OF  IGNORANCE  251 

do  this  natural  thing;  I  will  resist  the  overpowering 
temptation  to  yowl."  If  he  did  he  would  cease  to  be 
a  dog.  Next  spring  it  would  be  easier  for  him  to  shut 
up;  and  in  a  few  years  he  would  move  into  a  porch- 
house  and  be  writing  essays  on  the  immorality  of  any 
barking  whatever.  By  that  time  he  would  be  wearing 
piccadilly  collars  and  eye-glasses. 

Some  day  she  would  break  loose  and  express  herself. 
She  had  done  so  in  a  number  of  small  things.  Phew! 
How  the  good  mater  would  carry  on  if  she  knew ! 

For  illustration,  Gorgas  gave  a  sketchy  account  of 
her  holiday  with  Bardek.  They  had  tramped  across 
country  to  Chestnut  Hill,  and  up  the  Whitemarsh  Val- 
ley, where  in  a  thick  of  young  willows  by  the  upper 
reaches  of  the  Wissahickon  they  had  struck  camp. 
They  built  a  fire  and  had  luscious  broiled  chicken  em- 
paled on  sticks  —  Bardek  had  negotiated  for  the  chick- 
ens at  a  near-by  farm  house.  For  hours  they  lolled  on 
the  ground,  Bardek's  thick  coat  serving  as  a  protection 
from  the  damp  earth,  stirred  the  fire,  and  talked  them- 
selves out.  They  should  have  started  for  home,  of 
course,  but  it  was  Gorgas  who  declined  to  go  back,  and 
Bardek  had  consoled  himself  with  the  sight  of  an  oc- 
casional puffing  train  off  beyond  the  trees ;  when  they 
willed  they  could  whisk  back  to  Mount  Airy  in  a  half 
hour  or  less. 

Then,  as  the  warm  sun  was  slanting  warningly  to- 
ward the  west,  Gorgas,  prowling  among  the  willows, 
came  upon  an  amateur  spring-board  disclosing  a  swim- 
ming-hole, shut  in  from  all  the  world.  The  day  was 


252  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

exceptionally  warm,  but  when  she  shouted  with  delight 
and  invited  him  to  dare  her  to  dive  in,  Bardek  was  wise 
enough  to  know  the  dangerous  deception  in  the  day  and 
season,  and  ordered  her  most  thunderously  to  do  no 
such  thing.  And  therein  Bardek  was  not  wise  at  all. 
She  would  not  be  ordered  about  by  anyone,  she  had 
retorted  angrily ;  she  would  do  as  she  pleased ;  and  when 
he  strode  forward,  talking  the  while  as  if  he  were  dis- 
ciplining one  of  his  youngsters,  she  plunged  in.  And 
just  to  show  that  she  was  master  of  herself,  she  had 
swum  about  deliberately  in  the  tingling  water  until  he 
changed  his  tone  and  pleaded  with  her  to  come  out. 

That,  of  course,  put  trains  out  of  the  question.  The 
miles  to  Mount  Airy  must  be  walked,  and  at  a  good 
pace,  too.  The  stimulating  chill  of  that  water  she 
recorded  as  one  of  the  most  satisfying  shocks  of  her 
young  experience;  and  the  swift  tramp  homeward  on 
an  exquisitely  warm  April  night  was  altogether  good. 

Bardek,  mindful  of  added  trouble  to  Gorgas  if  the 
Leverings  should  glimpse  him,  discreetly  dropped  out 
at  his  white-washed  cottage;  so  to  Gorgas  it  was  left 
to  face  the  family  alone.  It  was  close  to  midnight. 
The  Levering  household  was  awake  and  watching,  one 
might  be  sure,  and  full  of  silly  speculation. 

There  was  a  row,  of  course;  but  not  a  word  of  ex- 
planation from  Gorgas.  She  answered  questions  with 
tantalizing  vagueness,  foraged  for  food  and  ate  hun- 
grily, but  only  stared  like  Ophelia  at  their  admonitory 
speeches. 

Presently    they   noticed  her   closer   resemblance   to 


A  PARABLE  OF  IGNORANCE  253 

Ophelia,  the  damp  hair,  and  presented  the  theory  that 
she  had  fallen  into  the  water.  The  thought  of  swim- 
ming in  April  did  not  occur  to  them.  As  that  drew 
sympathy  and  a  cessation  of  fault-finding  she  affected 
a  clever  shiver  or  two  and  was  put  to  bed  with  much 
solicitude  and  a  comforting  drink  of  hot  lemonade. 
At  this  hour  she  was  presumed  to  be  sleeping. 

What  good  would  explanations  have  done?  She 
asked  Blynn.  The  net  result  had  been  good,  physically, 
mentally  and  spiritually  good.  She  had  let  loose  strug- 
gling feeling  and  had  the  fine  bounding  recompense  that 
always  comes  when  mother  nature  says,  Give.  To  tell 
the  bare  facts  would  be  to  tell  a  sort  of  untruth ;  cer- 
tain persons  —  the  plaster-of-paris  sort  —  are  incap- 
able of  receiving ;  preconceived  notions  of  conduct  have 
"  set  "  them  forever. 

Even  this  long  letter,  now  coming  to  an  abrupt  close, 
was  helpful  and  right.  Nature  had  not  said,  Sleep  — 
although  she  was  saying  it  now,  and  mighty  strong, 
too  —  but  she  had  said,  Give ;  write ;  tell  Allen  Blynn. 
And  if  Allen  Blynn  would  mail  his  letters  before  ten 
o'clock  at  night  Gorgas  Levering  would  be  the  first  to 
claim  them  in  the  morning.  Spying  over  one's  letters 
would  be  the  next  thing  to  take  up  with  the  family! 

Allen  Blynn's  reply  was  dispatched  immediately  and 
strictly  according  to  mailing  directions.  It  was  in  long- 
hand, a  tacit  sign  hereafter  of  the  distinction  between 
public  and  private  readings. 

The  theme  of  his  letter  was  freedom.  To  be  free  — 
that  was  the  history  of  all  human  conflict  and  the  goal 


254  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

of  civilization.  He  was  with  her  so  thoroughly  in  her 
attempt  to  be  herself  that  she  glowed  with  the  spirit 
of  vindicated  right.  Here  was  an  "  authority  "  giving 
her  that  necessary  courage  so  much  needed  by  those 
who  fight  alone. 

That  was  distinctly  Blynn's  way  with  children,  to 
start  with  agreement,  gain  loyalty,  divert  the  terrific 
force  of  opposition  —  a  pedagogic  jiu-jitsu  which 
turned  all  the  energies  his  way. 

"  But  here  we  come  to  a  puzzle,"  he  went  on,  "  which 
nobody  yet  has  satisfactorily  solved.  Obey  your  in- 
stincts? All  right.  It  is  a  great  principle.  But  which 
instincts?  The  instinct  to  assert  the  best  that  is  in 
us?  Oh,  yes,  indeed.  The  instinct  to  be  strong,  to 
produce  worthily,  to  live  without  mental  or  physical 
pain?  Undoubtedly.  But  should  we  give  play  to 
other  instincts,  too,  equally  natural  and  equally  strug- 
gling to  express  themselves ;  the  instinct  to  kill,  for  in- 
stance; to  grovel;  to  run  away;  to  save  one's  skin  at 
the  expense  of  one's  ideas ;  to  be  unclean ;  to  be  sloth- 
ful; diseased;  to  sneak  and  lie  and  bear  false  witness? 
I  am  not  mentioning  the  worst  ones,  but  if  you  were  a 
man  I  could.  No  doubt  you  are  old  enough  to  have 
heard  of  some.  In  other  words,  there  is  a  war  among 
our  most  natural  desires,  and  the  game  is  to  him  who 
exercises  the  high,  and  atrophies  the  base  in  us.  That's 
the  old  quarrel  over  good  and  evil,  the  archangel  of  the 
Lord  against  Lucifer  and  his  demons. 

"  Whenever  I  feel  most  the  desire  to  '  break  loose,' 
as  you  say,  and  have  my  momentary  will,  I  think  of 


A  PARABLE  OF  IGNORANCE  255 

certain  creatures  about  me  who  have  tried  that  game 
to  the  full, —  the  blear-eyed  wretches  who  sun  themselves 
in  the  parks  or  nod  and  drowse  in  the  reading-rooms  of 
the  public  libraries ;  and  of  that  hunted-looking  crew 
of  hideous  women  who  prowl  the  streets  in  ones  and 
twos  after  nightfall.  All  of  these  were  young  and  fair 
once,  and  laughed,  and  felt  the  call  to  be  themselves. 
Think  of  it ! 

"How  can  you  judge  where  your  desire  will  lead? 
The  child  would  eat  nothing  but  ice  cream  and  cake. 
Some  forlorn  little  kiddies,  whom  I  meet  in  my  journeys 
through  the  city,  have  been  allowed  to  have  their  will. 
I  see  them  satisfying  their  natural  hunger  craving  while 
mothers  look  on  complacently  and  permit  the  growth 
of  a  brood  of  malnutritioned  youngsters.  We  wiser 
folks,  passing  by,  we  know  the  end.  .We  are  like 
prophets  foreseeing  calamity. 

"  Well,  what  is  to  guide  us  ?  Wisdom.  And  how 
shall  we  know  wisdom?  That  is  hard,  I  admit;  but 
some  of  it  is  found  in  the  curbs  and  restrictions  of 
society.  The  very  repressions  that  gall  you  may  be 
the  law  that  keeps  you  from  eventual  destruction.  So- 
ciety is  not  always  right,  not  by  a  jugful,  and  revolu- 
tionists there  must  be  to  amend  and  abolish.  But  one 
must  have  care.  For  the  ancient  regime  one  might  un- 
wittingly substitute  The  Terror. 

"  Your  letter  has  inspired  me  to  write  a  parable. 
Half  the  morning  I  have  been  toiling  over  it,  shaping 
and  reshaping  the  phrases  — is  there  any  exercise  more 
delightful!  I  have  added  to  my  joy  by  trying  to  put 


256  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

it  into  the  stately  English  of  Elizabeth,  which  even  at 
its  worst  is  touched  with  subtle  beauty.  It  doesn't  sat- 
isfy just  yet,  so  I  shall  wait. 

"  The  title  is  clear  to  me.  *  Ignorance.'  No  one 
should  feel  hurt  by  the  accusation  of  ignorance;  it  is 
the  common  mortal  possession. 

"  Before  I  close  I  must  tell  you  more  of  my  great 
mystery,  '  The  Lady  of  the  Interruption.' ' 

After  one  has  been  very  serious  with  children,  he 
knew,  it  is  always  prudent  to  shift  the  topic  abruptly, 
as  if  all  that  has  been  said  has  no  personal  application 
whatever. 

"  She  is  present  quite  often  at  my  extension  lectures. 
Once  or  twice  I  have  seen  her  distinctly,  and  have 
learned  to  look  for  my  cues  by  her  nods  of  approval 
or  her  smiling  disdain.  So  far,  she  has  not  *  inter- 
rupted ' ;  but  I  am  ready  any  moment.  After  the  lec- 
ture we  open  the  question-box  and  have  a  fifteen  minute 
rapid  answering  of  queries.  Lately  she  has  been  ask- 
ing questions,  which,  needless  to  say,  I  do  not  read 
aloud.  Here  is  one. 

"  *  Don't  you  think  that  a  professor  of  English 
should  take  as  much  care  in  purchasing  wearing  ap- 
parel as  he  does  in  the  selection  of  his  phrases?  Or  do 
you  believe  that  a  hump  at  the  back  of  the  coat  is  es- 
sential to  professional  dignity;  or  that  a  white  waist- 
coat for  evening  wear  would  be  too  undemocratic  in  a 
republic  ?  ' 

"  She  has  been  hinting  several  times  that  my  personal 
appearance  could  be  improved  without  loss  of  vocal  de- 


A  PARABLE  OF  IGNORANCE  257 

livery !  Isn't  it  the  most  eccentric  thing  you  ever  heard 
of?  And  the  strangest  part  of  it  all  is  that  I  enjoy  it. 
I  find  she  is  quite  right  in  a  number  of  points.  I  am 
a  shabby  beggar.  The  total  effect  has  been  to  send 
me  to  a  good  tailor.  Oh,  we're  quite  spruce,  nowadays, 
I  tell  you !  Her  latest  question  was : 

"  *  You  follow  my  suggestions,  but  you  do  not  read 
my  questions  aloud.  Be  careful,  or  I  shall  expose  you 
again.' 

"  Is  she  simply  odd-brained,  or  a  great  humorist  ? 
Pray,  put  your  mind  to  it.  I'm  tremendously  inter- 
ested." 

It  was  not  difficult  for  Gorgas  to  decide  about  the 
lady,  but  she  did  not  write  her  full  conclusions  to  Allen 
Blynn;  if  the  lady  were  mad,  there  was  method  in  it. 
What  she  did  write  was  to  inquire  more  about  her  ap- 
pearance. Did  she  smile  or  look  over-serious?  Was 
she  dark  or  light? 

Men  are  the  most  artless  creatures,  she  thought; 
women  could  take  outrageous  liberties  with  them  and 
they  never  suspect  anything.  And  of  all  artless  men, 
Allen  Blynn  was  the  easiest.  He  was  so  chivalrous,  so 
ready  to  serve.  A  woman  had  but  to  say,  "  Sit  by  me 
and  talk,"  or,  "  Spend  Wednesday  afternoon  with  me," 
and  Allen  would  drop  his  dearest  interest  to  do  the 
lady's  bidding;  and  with  such  flattering  attention,  too. 

The  "  Lady  of  the  Interruption  "  was  going  to  need- 
less lengths  to  capture  the  services  of  Allen  Blynn, 
Gorgas  thought.  How  easy  to  see  through  her  ruse; 


258  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

although  one  had  to  admit  that  she  was  a  daring  crea- 
ture, and  intelligent,  too.  One  could  not  help  admir- 
ing her  supreme  nerve.  Undoubtedly,  she  was  "  ex- 
pressing herself,"  and  defying  all  that  same  code  of  so- 
ciety which  forbids  a  young  woman  to  debate  in  public. 
A  day  or  two  later  a  typewritten  letter,  obviously 
for  family  reading,  came  to  Gorgas,  containing  the 
simple  statement  that  he  thought  the  Leverings  might 
be  interested  in  the  enclosed  bit  of  writing. 


His  turban  was  a  strange  purple,  and  his  gown  was 
the  orange  of  the  dust  of  the  road;  and  in  his  hand 
he  bore  no  staff  but  a  branch  of  wild  grape.  Although 
he  had  travelled  far,  yet  was  his  face  white;  white  like 
those  hermits  that  dwell  apart  in  caves ;  white  was  he 
as  the  live  white  of  the  growing  lily,  as  the  pallor  of 
the  moon  in  daylight;  and  the  men  and  women  of  the 
city  marvelled,  for  they  were  a  dark  people  that 
worked  in  the  furrows  of  the  earth  and  lived  daily  in 
the  sun. 

Now  the  stranger  would  have  passed  on,  but  they 
came  out  from  the  gates  of  their  city  to  gaze  upon  him. 
Some  stood  in  the  way  and  hindered,  some  touched 
reverently  the  hem  of  his  robe,  and  many  besought  him 
to  enter  into  their  houses  and  stay  with  them. 

But  he  said  unto  them,  A  wanderer  have  I  been  all 
the  days  of  my  manhood  and  must  fare  alone ;  although 
best  of  all  things  I  love  friends  and  companionship. 
And  he  would  have  turned  back,  even  at  the  gate  of 
the  city,  but  they  pressed  him  to  come  among  them,  if 
only  for  a  little  while.  Friends,  they  cried,  thou  shalt 
have  an  abundance ;  for  here  everyone  worketh  with  his 
hands  in  the  fields,  and  each  is  neighbor  to  another. 


A  PARABLE  OF  IGNORANCE  259 

And  he  hearkened  to  them  and  said  no  word,  but  looked 
upon  them  as  one  with  great  longing.  So  he  tarried 
with  them. 

And  straightway  some  among  them  began  to  toil 
less  in  the  heat  of  the  day,  and  some  wove  coverings  of 
straw  to  keep  their  faces  from  the  light  of  the  sun ;  and 
they  said  to  one  another  in  the  market-place,  How 
beautiful  is  the  whiteness  of  the  face  and  the  hands  of 
him  that  stooped  to  come  among  us.  We  are  a  rough 
people,  dark  of  skin ;  from  of  old  have  we  toiled  with 
our  hands  and  have  lifted  up  our  faces  daily  to  the 
burning  heavens,  and  see  what  it  hath  profited  us. 
Would  that  we  were  as  the  holy  man  is. 

Then  went  some  to  him  in  the  night  and  told  of  their 
great  desire  to  be  as  he.  And  one  who  was  nearest  him 
said  unto  him,  Tell  me,  I  pray  thee,  wherein  thy  come- 
liness lieth  and  wherewith  we  might  be  as  thou  art. 
And  when  they  one  and  all  pressed  upon  him  to  say 
wherewith  they  might  be  as  he,  he  smiled  and  regarded 
them  with  great  tenderness. 

Yet  he  passed  his  hands  over  the  faces  of  those  whom 
he  loved,  and  blessed  them,  and,  behold,  they  lost  their 
roughness  and  became  smooth  and  fair  and  of  the 
whiteness  of  the  clouds  of  heaven. 

And  one  by  one  to  each  as  he  asked  he  laid  his  hands 
upon  the  brow  and  upon  the  cheek  and  upon  the  lips 
and  upon  the  strong  limbs,  and  blessed  them,  and  they 
became  as  the  Wanderer  was,  and  went  away  rejoicing 
at  the  miracle  wrought  upon  their  bodies. 

Much  honor,  they  offered  him,  even  silver  and  jewels ; 
but  none  of  these  would  he  have  save  the  daily  bread 
and  wine,  claiming  only  their  friendliness. 

And  when  the  day  came  that  he  had  set  for  his  de- 
parture, there  was  much  sorrow,  so  that  the  Wanderer 
tarried  longer.  And  again  and  again  was  the  day  put 


260  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

off  until  he  had  sojourned  with  them  a  full  twelfth- 
month.  The  day  of  his  coming  they  named  for  a  holy 
day  and  the  year  of  that  day  they  celebrated  with 
feasting  and  thanksgiving,  for  now  few  of  them  were 
not  fair. 

But  on  the  evening  of  that  day  the  Wanderer  fell 
ill ;  and  he  called  about  him  those  who  had  been  chiefly 
his  companions,  and  said,  I  am  to  die.  But  they  cried 
aloud  that  it  could  not  be ;  that  they  whom  he  had  com- 
forted would  comfort  him  also ;  that  as  he  had  min- 
istered unto  them  so  would  they  to  him.  Of  a  surety, 
they  said,  he  would  live  to  be  strong  again  and,  in  the 
fullness  of  time,  see  age  come  with  honor. 

But  he  answered,  I  am  to  die.  I  am  to  die,  he  said, 
and  turned  his  face  quietly  to  the  wall,  quietly  as  of 
one  who  had  finished  a  good  task  and  was  content. 

Thereupon  they  besought  him  to  tell  them  what  they 
might  do  to  save  him,  to  which  of  his  gods  they  might 
pray  and  offer  sacrifice.  And  he  turned  and  answered, 
Of  all  earthly  things,  best  loved  I  friends  and  compan- 
ionship. These  ye  have  given  me  in  abundance.  Yet 
am  I  to  die ;  for  surely  ye  have  known  all  this  while,  as 
ye  turned  me  from  my  journey  and  led  me  through  the 
gates  of  your  city,  as  ye  gave  me  of  the  bread  and 
wine,  as  ye  visited  me  and  comforted  me  daily  with 
friendliness ;  surely  ye  knew  as  ye  begged  the  secret  of 
my  comeliness  and  bade  me  lay  my  hands  upon  thy 
brow,  thy  cheek,  your  lips  and  your  strong  limbs, 
surely  ye  knew :  I  am  a  leper. 


XIX 

TOBOGGANING 

NED  MORRIS'  behavior  toward  Gorgas  un- 
derwent a  decided  change.  His  tone  grew  dis- 
creet and  secretive  and  intimate;  he  seemed 
forever  smirking,  as  if  charged  with  unexpressed  hu- 
mor, the  possessor  of  a  private  joke. 

"  Good  morning,  sweetheart,"  he  would  whisper  his 
greeting,  although  it  might  be  evening. 

And  she  would  look  up  from  her  work  with  equal  ap- 
preciation of  the  common  jest  and  remark,  "Merry 
Christmas,  pretty  boy,"  but  go  on  with  her  work. 

When  others  were  present  he  gave  no  sign,  but  so 
soon  as  the  two  were  alone  he  hovered  near,  playing  the 
open  swain,  but  purely  a  dramatic  role.  It  was  very 
amusing.  Gorgas  liked  the  drama  and  the  spirit  in 
which  it  was  played. 

As  she  hammered  he  would  sing  an  air  from  the  new 
Robin  Hood,  "  Churning,  churning,  churning,  all  the 
live-long  day,"  and  act  beautifully  the  tipsy  sheriff  of 
Nottingham.  Or  he  would  plead  with  mock  mournful- 
ness,  "  Oh,  promise  me  that  some  day  you  and  I  will 
take  our  love  together  'neath  some  sky,"  and  so  forth. 

Dangerous  topics  kept  coming  to  the  fore  in  their 

conversation,    dangerous    with    stirring   April    in    the 

261 


262  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

pulse  of  things,  and  two  healthy  youngsters  alone  to- 
gether. Ned  seemed  to  have  ample  afternoons  to  give. 
He  was  third  year  medical  school,  which  should  have 
meant  work,  but  he  claimed  to  have  everything  "  stowed 
away  "  for  the  May  finals.  At  any  rate,  the  spring 
recess  was  near  at  hand ;  he  could  "  plug  up  "  then. 

They  tried  out  the  courts  on  fine  days.  The  ground 
was  still  soft,  but  by  dint  of  much  rolling  they  managed 
to  get  some  practice ;  most  of  the  time,  however,  they  sat 
on  the  bench  in  the  sun,  and,  warmly  wrapped  in  woolens, 
breathed  the  exquisite  air  and  talked.  He  grew  dex- 
terous in  putting  sleeves  into  coats,  playing  gentleman- 
in-waiting,  and  while  ordinarily  she  resented  anyone 
touching  her,  she  found  herself  enjoying  these  little 
signs  of  fond  care  of  her. 

He  had  been  smoothing  out  a  collar  and  tucking  a 
"  sweater  "  snugly  back  of  her  ears,  carefully  brushing 
away  the  hair,  and  tapping  each  little  ear  jokingly. 
Meanwhile  he  had  drawn  out  a  log  for  her  feet  and  with 
the  aid  of  a  steamer-rug  had  tucked  her  in  comfortably. 

"  I  feel  like  a  mummy,"  she  laughed,  and  bathed  con- 
tentedly in  the  warm  sun. 

"  You  look  like  a  seraph,"  he  eyed  her  critically. 

"  Seraphs  don't  have  feet,"  she  corrected. 

"  What !  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Don't  tell  me  that !  Nor 
little,  fat,  brown  ears,  either?  " 

"  Nope." 

"Nor  crinkly,  brown  hair  what  won't  stay  fixed?" 
he  deftly  put  back  a  fluttering  strand. 


TOBOGGANING  263 

"  Nope." 

"  Nor  soft,  mellow  voices  what  sez  *  nope  '?  " 

"  Nope ;  they  always  toot  through  trumpets  —  or  is 
it  shawms?  " 

"  Well,  I'll  be  dinged ! "  he  swore. 

"  You're  quite  likely  to  be." 

"All  right,"  cheerfully,  "let's  be  dinged  together? 
Eh?  What  y'  say?" 

"  Mebbe;  how  do  you  begin?  " 

"  Facilis  descensus  Averni"  he  suggested. 

"  Talk  a  language  I  understand,"  but  she  quite  un- 
derstood that  stale  Latin  quotation,  "  Easy  is  the  road 
down." 

"  That  is  to  say,"  Morris  cast  about  for  a  transla- 
tion. "  '  Let  her  go,  Gallagher,  and  boomp !  you're  at 
the  bottom ! '  Let's  —  uh  —  let's  toboggan?  " 

He  slipped  a  hand  under  the  steamer  rug  and  grasped 
her  wrist. 

She  considered  for  a  moment  or  two,  but  she  gave  no 
answering  touch. 

"  You're  dead  cold,"  he  withdrew  and  chirped  gaily. 
"  No  blood  in  you.  You  couldn't  descensus  for  a  cent. 
What  you  need  is  a  series  of  stiff  lessons." 

"  Isn't  this  just  jim-dandy,"  she  murmured,  ignoring 
his  talk.  "Golly!  It's  good  sometimes  to  be  just 
alive."  He  grew  quiet.  "  I  heard  all  you  said,  Ned- 
die. I'm  not  inattentive.  Go  on  and  talk.  I  like  to 
hear  you  prattle.  But  I'm  so  comforty.  I  don't  want 
to  think.  .  .  .  And  it's  so  nice  to  be  taken  care  of, 


264  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

tucked  in,  and  all  that."  She  kicked  out  a  foot. 
"'There!  It's  out  again.  Be  a  good  boy  and  fix  the 
mummy's  legs." 

"  And  he  fixed  them  up  so  care-ful-ee,"  he  sang  as  he 
worked,  "  That  now  he's  the  ruler  of  the  Queen's 
nav-ee." 

He  smoked  and  they  both  lapsed  into  silence,  while 
his  eyes  watched  her  with  frank  approval. 

"  Women  like  to  be  helpless,"  she  spoke  out  the  sum- 
ming up  of  her  thinking.  "  I  always  thought  I  de- 
spised those  frail  beseeching-looking  things  that  hang 
around  like  dolls  and  let  men  fetch  and  carry  for  them. 
I  always  did  for  myself  —  usually  could  do  it  better 
than  any  man ;  but  lately,  I've  got  a  case  of  the  *  deli- 
cates.'  You're  responsible,  Neddie ;  you've  been  taking 
such  delicious  care  of  me  that  I  have  succumbed.  *  Let 
her  go,  Gallagher  and  boomp!  I'm  at  the  bottom.' 
Just  tuck  in  that  flapping  hair,  won't  you?  I  don't 
want  to  move." 

A  dutiful  and  faithful  squire  Morris  became ;  and  no 
one  thought  anything  of  it.  Mrs.  Levering  frequently 
came  to  the  "  smitty  "  to  watch  the  work  or  to  chat 
with  Gorgas  about  little  teas  and  small  receptions  that 
kept  an  informal  atmosphere  moving  in  the  neighbor- 
hood ;  Gorgas  was  clever  in  thinking  up  original  things, 
decorations  and  so  on.  Ned's  presence  was  accepted 
as  a  matter  of  course.  Had  he  not  grown  up  in  the 
neighborhood,  and  were  not  he  and  Gorgas  perpetual 
tennis  partners?  But  it  is  doubtful  if  she  ever  asked 
herself  even  so  much  as  that ;  her  serene  assumption  of 


TOBOGGANING  265 

the  careful  mother  had  annihilated  all  thinking  on  the 
subject. 

"  My  daughters,"  she  confessed  to  a  caller  who  was 
interested  in  seeing  the  "  smitty,"  "  are  pretty  much 
about  what  I  planned.  It  is  almost  wholly  a  question 
of  management,  I  think.  For  instance,  I  decided  that 
Keyser  should  like  music.  She  rebelled,  naturally ;  but 
I  held  her  to  it  —  my  will  was  the  stronger.  Now  she 
plays  rather  nicely,  I  think ;  and  she's  very  grateful,  I 
can  tell,  for  my  insistence.  Gorgas  has  been  a  trial,  I 
must  say ;  but  look  how  she  has  come  around !  There 
was  a  time  when  we  could  hardly  have  a  decent  conver- 
sation together,"  she  laughed,  "  but  now  we're  quite 
chums. 

"  And  then  there's  that  awful  question  of  boys.  I 
have  never  had  the  question.  For  us  it  just  doesn't 
exist.  My  scheme  is  very  simple.  I  keep  a  lot  of 
social  things  going  on  right  at  home;  the  girls  have  a 
good  time,  and  I  know  everything  that  is  happening." 

While  Mrs.  Levering  talked,  Ned  Morris  was  saying 
pretty  nothings  in  Gorgas'  ear. 

"  It  seems  to  me,  young  man,"  Gorgas  told  him  in  a 
secretive  undertone,  "  that  you  are  making  the  right 
speech  to  the  wrong  party.  Bea  Wilcox  is  the  young 
lady  who  should  have  patent  rights  on  that  kind  of 
talk.  Or  have  you  broken  off?  " 

Ned  made  a  wry  face.  "  Friday  nights,"  he  said, 
"  I  pay  my  addresses  to  the  lady.  Mother's  an  awful 
stickler.  You  have  to  go  home  at  ten  o'clock,  the  time 
they  unchain  the  mastiff.  Broken  off?  Not  exactly. 


266  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Sort  of  mangled.  Bea's  nasty  lately.  Can't  make  her 
out.  But  this  isn't  Bea's  party ;  I'm  talking  to  your 
right  ear." 

' "  The  right  ear  is  heartily  ashamed  of  you,"  she 
turned  completely  around.  "  Try  the  left  ear ;  it's  not 
used  to  you  yet." 

So  they  chatted  nonsense  and  —  drifted. 

When  the  mother  had  gone  she  brushed  him  aside 
and  took  up  a  mallet. 

"  You  are  keeping  me  from  my  work,"  she  protested, 
but  not  with  much  force. 

"  Aw ;  you  don't  want  to  work.  You're  just  bluffing. 
How  can  you  pretend  to  work  on  days  like  these  ?  " 

Nevertheless,  she  began  a  gentle  rhythmic  tapping. 

"  *  Churning,  churning,  churning  all  the  live-long 
day,' "  Ned  sang,  keeping  time  to  the  beats.  Lean- 
ing over  he  took  hold  of  the  handle,  closed  his  hand 
over  hers,  and  continued  the  singing.  She  joined  in 
the  second  part,  and  laughingly  enacted  the  role  of  the 
milk-maid  where  the  sheriff  aims  to  instruct  Guy  of 
Gisbond  into  the  mysteries  of  courting.  The  scene 
ends  with  the  sheriff  drawing  closer  and  closer  until  he 
turns  to  implant  a  kiss  on  the  dairy-maid. 

Gorgas  ducked  half-successfully,  and  gave  the  tim- 
idest  imitation  of  a  slap.  In  the  wrestling  that  ensued 
she  became  somewhat  flushed  and  disheveled,  and  Ned's 
soft  collar  was  wrenched  quite  buttonless ;  so  that,  al- 
though the  warning  of  Mrs.  Levering  and  her  guest  re- 
turning gave  ample  time  for  a  quick  recovery  of  the 
mallet,  it  allowed  no  opportunity  for  anything  else. 


TOBOGGANING  267 

"  My  dear,"  the  mother's  voice  was  solicitous,  "  I'm 
afraid  you're  working  too  hard  this  morning.  Don't 
overdo  it.  You  look  positively  done  up.  Don't  you 
think  you  had  better  lie  down  and  rest,  dear?  " 

Gorgas  held  herself  in  check  and  answered  properly 
and  dutifully,  but  volumes  of  pent-up  laughter  threat- 
ened to  explode.  The  situation  was  made  especially 
tense  by  the  comic  expression  of  sadness  assumed  by 
Morris  —  it  seemed  to  convey  a  mountain  of  sympathy 
for  the  hard  lot  of  the  workwoman  —  and  by  the  idiotic 
smile  of  sympathy  from  the  stupid  guest.  Any  person 
with  half  an  eye  could  have  seen  that  these  two  young 
persons  had  been  tussling  together. 

Only  the  severest  restraint  held  them  in  check  until 
Mrs.  Levering  had  piloted  her  visitor  out  of  the 
"  smitty  "  and  into  the  front  garden.  Then  the  two 
culprits  sprawled  on  the  work-bench  and  laughed  them- 
selves into  hiccoughs. 

"  What  fools  these  elderly  mortals  be,"  was  Morris' 
comment,  on  partial  recovery.  "  They  don't  know  a 
hawk  from  a  hand  organ.  "  '  Oh,  Gorgie,  deah,'  "  he 
mimicked.  "  '  Are  you  suah  you  are  not  working  too 
hahd?'" 

When  Bardek  came  in  an  hour  later  he  found  Gorgas 
and  Ned  sitting  together  on  the  big  settle.  Gorgas 
had  her  sleeve  turned  back  and  a  handkerchief  bound  to 
her  arm.  He  gave  one  careful  look  at  them,  walked 
quickly  over  to  Gorgas'  bench,  inspected  the  progress 
made,  and  softly  whistled. 

"  We're  discussing  important  matters,  Bardek,"  Gor- 


268  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

gas  explained.  The  sly  twinkle  in  his  eye  was  not  to 
be  endured  passively.  "  Ned's  telling  me  about  his 
medical  courses." 

Bardek  whistled  a  strange,  unfinished  bar. 

"  Tell  it  to  t'e  marines,"  he  nodded  significantly. 

"  Honest,  Bardek,"  Ned  assured  him.  "  I  was  show- 
ing her  how  we  bandage  in  emergencies  without  proper 
material  at  hand." 

"  Rats ! "  Bardek  exulted  at  his  ability  to  use  the 
prevailing  lingo.  A  moment  later,  he  added,  "  If  Miss 
Gorgas  ever  finish  zat  order,"  jerking  his  arm  toward 
her  bench,  "  Neddie  must  soon  make  'not'er  home-run, 
eh?" 

"  Hug  the  bag ;  pitcher's  got  the  ball ! "  Morris  re- 
torted. 

"  Look  out  for  a  steal !  "  put  in  Gorgas  over  her 
shoulder. 

"  There  he  goes !  "  shouted  Ned.  "  Slide !  slide !  .  .  . 
Safe  by  a  mile !  " 

"  Somebody  coach  third,"  called  Gorgas. 

"  Vairy  good,"  agreed  Bardek,  who  was  quite  aware 
that  all  this  nonsense  was  aimed  at  him.  "  Vairy  good. 
That  talk  I  do  not  know;  but  I  know  some  t'ings." 
He  marched  toward  the  door.  "  I  not  so  beeg  a  fool 
to  stand  around  and  stop  nice  little  boy-girl  love-mak- 
ing. Je  n'aime  pas  a  faire  le  facheux  troisieme.  I 
know  when  three  is  one  too  many!  Au  revoir,  les  en- 
fants!  "  and  he  was  gone. 

The  effect  was  sobering. 

"  The  blithering  fool!  "  ejaculated  Gorgas. 


TOBOGGANING  269 

Off  in  the  distance  they  could  hear  Bardek  singing 

lustily. 

"  Oh !  oh !  oh !  oh !  ah !  ah !  ah !  ah ! 
"Quel  bon  petit  roi  c'etait  111!  la!  111!" 

"  Oh,  he's  a  wise  boy,  all  right,"  commented  Ned. 
"  He  knows  a  hawk  from  a  hand  organ,  O.  K." 

"  Hush ! "  Gorgas  shook  a  finger  under  his  nose. 
"  That's  not  the  proper  way  to  talk.  We're  not  — ' 

"Aren't  we?  ...  Then  let's!" 

She  tried  to  gather  her  thoughts  together.  If  this 
had  been  almost  any  other  man,  some  chap  she  didn't 
know  like  a  brother,  she  would  have  sent  him  about 
his  business  instanter.  But  Ned  was  such  a  familiar 
figure,  like  a  bit  of  accustomed  furniture.  One  was  so 
thoroughly  used  to  him  and  his  nonsense  that  much 
could  be  allowed  without  offence.  Her  mind  would  not 
face  the  real  situation,  however;  it  fought  away  from 
it  for  fear  of  stopping  things. 

Love-making?  Nonsense.  .  .  .  What  was  it,  then? 
.  .  .  Oh,  bother!  Don't  think  about  it.  Just  let 
things  go.  "  Let  her  go,  Gallagher !  and  boomp !  we're 
at  the  bottom." 

There  was  nothing  wrong  in  just  drifting  comfor- 
tably through  new  experiences.  Ned  didn't  mean  any- 
thing. He  was  as  good  as  engaged  to  Bea.  But  was 
this  fair  to  Bea?  .  .  .  Oh,  shucks!  Why  take  up  dis- 
agreeable topics?  .  .  .  Hang  Bardek,  anyway.  .  .  . 
He  spoilt  all  the  fun.  ...  It  made  them  both  self-con- 
scious. 

Ned  was  sitting  on  the  arm  of  the  settle,  affecting 


270  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

to  smooth  out  the  bandage  on  her  arm,  but  she  knew 
he  was  not  doing  that  at  all.  She  was  leaning  against 
him.  Perhaps  she  ought  to  get  up  and  clear  him  out. 
But  she  did  no  such  thing.  It  was  very  comforty, 
there. 

It  was  more  than  comforty;  of  that  she  became 
aware  when  his  head  leaned  over  quietly  and  his  face 
pressed  against  her  temples.  She  could  feel  his  hand 
tremble,  and  she  knew  that  her  face  was  burning  with 
the  touch  of  his. 

She  did  not  move  away,  but  she  said  quietly,  "  Why 
do  you  do  this,  Ned?  It  isn't  right,  and  you  know  it." 

"  Why?  "  his  voice  shook. 

"There's  Bea." 

'*  Oh,  Bea's  all  right,"  he  parried. 

"  Are  you  going  to  marry  Bea?  " 

"Oh,  I  guess  so;  forget  it.  Let's  —  let's  just  to- 
boggan." 

She  closed  her  eyes  and  let  the  thrill  of  the  contact 
suffuse  her. 

"But  you  don't  care — "  she  struggled  to  see  the 
thing  straight. 

"Don't  I?" 

"And  neither  do  I.  We're  just  good  friends,  like 
brother  and  sister.  And  we're  letting  something  get 
hold  of  us  and  make  us  wild." 

"  All  right.     Let  her  go,  Gallagher  — "  he  chuckled. 

"  But  how  can  we?  It  isn't  —  love-making  at  all ! 
.  What  is  it?" 


TOBOGGANING  271 

"  I  don't  know  and  I  don't  care.  I  didn't  invent  this 
thing.  .  .  .  We're  just  human,  I  suppose." 

Mrs.  Levering's  voice  could  be  heard  calling  for  Mac. 
The  two  riotous  young  hearts  beat  violently  at  the  sud- 
den thought  of  detection ;  but  they  did  not  stir. 

Fear  shook  her;  if  the  mother  had  quietly  opened 
the  door  before  them  and  stared,  in  combined  astonish- 
ment and  indignation,  Gorgas  felt  that  she  should  be 
unable  to  get  up.  It  was  the  sensation  of  dreams 
where  we  are  about  to  be  devoured  by  some  hideous 
beast,  yet  can  neither  cry  out  nor  move. 

"  Suppose  mother  should  walk  in  that  door ! "  she 
whispered.  "  That's  the  way  she  always  comes  —  from 
the  house." 

"  It's  locked,"  he  whispered  back.  There  was  no 
cause  for  the  lower  voice,  save  sheer  excitement. 

After  a  moment  she  asked,  "  How  do  you  know  ?  " 

"  I  locked  it  myself." 

"When?" 

"  When  she  went  out.  ...  I  slipped  the  bolt.  .  .  . 
Let's  forget  about  it." 

From  her  silence  he  caught  the  need  of  making  some 
defense. 

"  Maybe  it  isn't  love-making,"  he  argued.  "  I  think 
it  isn't,  myself.  It's  a  fair  exchange,  and  therefore 
robs  nobody." 

She  did  not  move  away,  but  she  had  not  surrendered. 
Off  in  the  depths  of  her  mind  something  was  striving  to 
be  heard.  It  seemed  like  long  strings  of  sentences,  too 


272  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

far  off  to  be  deciphered,  marching,  marching,  in  an  un- 
dulating line  over  hill  and  valley,  hurrying  to  her  aid. 
She  smiled  as  she  recalled  Mark  Twain's  picture  of  the 
German  language  sprawling  in  that  same  fashion  with 
a  separable  verb  tacked  on  the  end. 

"  I  didn't  mean  to  do  this,"  he  poured  in  her  ear. 
"  It  was  not  in  my  thoughts  until  you  put  it  there 
that  day  you  and  I  talked  about  the  *  f  rat '  pin.  Since 
then  I  have  been  aching  to  —  do  this.  It's  nature. 
It's  just  instinct,  I  suppose." 

Instinct!  That  was  it.  The  marching  line  of 
words  came  clearly  into  view  now.  "  There  are  good 
instincts  and  bad  instincts,"  it  shouted  at  her. 
"Which  will  you  have?  Take  your  choice.  The 
archangel  of  the  Lord  offers  you  one;  Lucifer  and  his 
demons  offer  you  another.  Choose;  and  be  exalted  or 
forever  damned." 

She  twisted  his  arms  from  around  her  and  got  up. 

"We're  both  a  little  mad,  I  think."  She  steadied 
herself  and  looked  away  from  his  eager  eyes.  "  This 
won't  do.  No ! "  She  faced  him  and  pushed  him 
away.  "  Stop  it,  I  tell  you.  I'm  awake  now.  For  a 
minute  or  two  I  was  drunk.  .  .  .  What  a  storm  you 
raised  in  me,  Neddie  Morris !  .  .  .  Oof !  Let's  get  out 
of  here  and  breathe  some  air.  I'm  suffocated." 

For  the  remainder  of  that  day  she  was  obdurate. 
He  was  not  permitted  to  touch  her.  Eventually  he  be- 
came bitter,  tried  unsuccessfully  to  quarrel  with  her, 
and  finally  left  her  in  a  huff. 

And  she  was  not  ashamed.     That  was  the  oddest 


TOBOGGANING  273 

consequence,  she  thought.  There  was  nothing,  then,  to 
tell  her  whether  this  instinct  was  a  good  or  a  bad  one. 
It  had  seemed  so  right  and  natural,  and  —  this  she  re- 
luctantly confessed  —  it  had  been  absolutely  satisfac- 
tory. 

She  recalled  the  eager  people  who  begged  of  the 
pale  stranger  to  sojourn  with  them.  How  beautiful 
he  must  have  appeared  to  them,  just  as  this  first  ex- 
perience was  beautiful.  Ignorance  of  the  obvious  had 
blinded  their  eyes  as  it  now  blinded  hers.  Leprosy ! 
Hideous !  But  the  "  tobogganing,"  what  else  did  it  lead 
to?  She  knew  enough  of  her  sisterhood  to  be  aware 
of  the  wages  eventually  paid. 

Almost  the  last  touch  of  girlhood  went  from  her 
that  hour.  Maturity  lurked  in  her  eyes  as  never  be- 
fore; in  her  step  and  carriage,  even  in  the  tones  of 
her  voice.  The  last  trace  of  awkwardness  in  gait  and 
speech  disappeared,  vanished  suddenly.  The  ship  had 
found  herself  and  was  surging  through  the  tossing 
seas.  Slight  as  the  experience  had  been,  it  had  not 
been  slight  in  its  effects.  It  gave  her  a  kind  of  pride, 
as  of  one  who  had  achieved  something ;  and, —  what 
strange  thoughts  go  packed  together !  —  it  filled  her 
with  understanding  sympathy  for  all  wayward  women. 
From  that  hour,  another  odd  result,  she  became  her 
mother's  intimate  and  friend.  There  were  no  more 
"rows";  and,  so  inconsistent  a  thing  is  memory,  no 
one  seemed  to  remember  that  Gorgas  had  ever  been  a 
difficult  problem  in  the  family. 

And  Ned?     After  a  few  days  he  adjusted  himself 


274?  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

to  the  changed  situation;  and,  man-like,  forgot 
it  had  occurred.  His  medical  studies  began  to  pull 
him  —  when  one  interest  is  out,  others  always  take 
its  place  —  and  the  old  jollity  of  manner  came  racing 
back. 

Almost  at  their  next  encounter,  over  which  Gorgas 
had  been  a  little  fearful,  he  met  her  eagerly  with : 

"  Say,  old  girl,  Bea  treats  me  like  a  civilized  com- 
patriot now.  Don't  see  what  she  ever  went  on  a  strike 
for.  I  hadn't  done  anything.  Honest !  Nothing  that 
I  know  of.  Well,  she's  forgiven  me  for  doing  nothing 
and  all's  hunky-dory.  .  .  .  She  thinks  you  know.  Say, 
be  a  good  girl  and  make  her  tell  you.  She's  dying  to 
talk  it  out  with  you ;  but  she's  afraid.  Sort  of  nervous 
and  shy,  you  know.  .  .  .  Oh,  she's  O.  K.  and  Al,  that 
little  girl." 

What  comic  animals  we  are,  she  thought  as  she 
searched  his  eyes  and  saw  there  nothing  but  loyalty  to 
the  other  woman.  Do  not  the  high  gods  sometimes  hold 
their  hands  to  their  faces  and  smile?  .  .  . 

Let  her  go,  Gallagher,  and,  boomp!  we're  at  th2 
bottom.  .  .  . 

Surely  ye  knew.  .  .  .  I  am  a  leper!  .  .  . 

What  a  topic  of  conversation  for  Allen  Blynn 
when  he  comes  down  for  the  Easter  holidays.  How 
much  should  she  tell?  It  depended  much  on  what  sort 
of  a  debate  they  could  manage  to  have  together.  Sev- 
eral apocryphal  versions  she  thought  out  and  dis- 
carded. The  best  of  them  was  a  hypothetical  case  of 
a  girl  who  had  confessed.  Certainly  she  would  not  have 


TOBOGGANING  275 

the  courage  to  talk  the  affair  out  boldly  with  Allen 
Blynn.  Not  that  she  felt  the  least  guilt,  but  any  tell- 
ing would,  somehow,  be  unfair  to  the  facts.  Who 
could  transmute  into  puffed  vocables  the  rich  data  of 
life?  It  would  be  like  transposing  a  cumulus  cloud- 
bank  into  a  major  chord.  The  life  and  the  autobiog- 
raphy are  never  the  same. 

When  Allen  Blynn  came  she  managed  to  secure  a 
large  share  of  his  time ;  but  even  the  third  cousin  of 
the  topic  was  not  broached.  Her  voice  fled  from  all 
suggestion  of  anything  so  personal;  possibly  because 
he  looked  so  much  older  and  stronger:  his  forehead 
seemed  to  bulge  more,  his  voice  had  grown  heavier,  and 
new  little  muscles  began  to  show  about  his  mouth,  signs 
of  much  public  speaking.  Instead,  she  plied  him  with 
questions  about  Holden,  with  which  she  felt  only  a  re- 
mote interest. 

And  they  talked  of  the  mysterious  lady.  Blynn  grew 
gay  at  the  thought  of  her. 

"  I'm  hot  on  her  trail,"  he  assured  her.  "  When  I 
go  for  her  at  the  close  of  the  lecture,  she  slips  out. 
She  is  always  at  the  end  of  the  hall.  And  no  one 
knows  her.  I  have  questioned  dozens  of  persons  who 
have  been  sitting  near." 

"She  watches  you,  I  suppose,  while  you  talk?" 
Gorgas  asked. 

"  Tremendously !  She  leans  forward  and  fixes  me 
with  her  eyes.  I  think  they  must  be  black.  Even 
across  a  big  hall  they  burn  at  me." 

"  Doesn't  it  bother  you?  " 


276  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Shouldn't  you  expect  it  to?  But  it  doesn't.  I 
get  positive  strength  from  her.  She  is  the  most  at- 
tentive person  I  ever  address.  Every  twist  of  her  head 
is  eloquent;  I  can  catch  the  register  of  the  value  of 
everything  I  say.  But  I  must  get  to  know  her  better. 
She  has  ideas;  no  doubt  of  that;  or  I  dream  she  has. 
And  perhaps  I  am  under  some  obligation  to  her. 
Someone  has  recently  presented  me  with  a  mighty  valu- 
able book.  It  is  a  first  edition,  in  good  condition,  too, 
of  the  second  series  of  Bacon's  essays.  Of  course,  I 
only  guess  that  she  sent  it.  It  had  my  name  on  the 
cover,  in  a  script  that  resembles  hers.  It  was  left  in  my 
room,  too.  Someone  must  have  walked  in  and  placed 
it  on  the  table.  .  .  .  Which  reminds  me  that  I  have  a 
book  for  you." 

"  Let's  see  it." 

"  Not  until  September  10th." 

"My  birthday!" 

"  Yes.     It  is  a  first  edition,  and  the  only  copy  made." 

*'  It  must  be  very  valuable,"  her  eyes  opened. 

"  It  is  to  me.  I  hope  it  may  be  to  you.  I  can  tell 
you  this  much,  I  wrote  it  myself  — " 

"  Oh,  splendid !  The  MS.  of  a  book !  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted. What  a  nice  kind  of  present." 

"  I  hope  you  will  think  so,"  he  rumpled  his  hair 
comically.  "  I've  put  a  lot  into  it  —  five  years.  But 
that's  all  I'm  going  to  tell  you,"  he  foresaw  her  ques- 
tion. "  Birthday  gifts  are  secrets.  .  .  .  You  won't 
tell  anybody  about  it,  will  you  ?  " 

She  agreed.     What  girl  does  not  hug  a  secret? 


TOBOGGANING  277 

"  But  oh,  Allen  Blynn,  why  did  you  tell  me  in  April? 
I  shall  wear  myself  out  thinking —  Is  it  fiction?" 
beaming. 

"  Bless  my  soul,  no !  " 

"  Oh,  a  book  on  literature !  "  mildly  enthusiastic. 

"  No-o." 

"  Pedagogy?  "  mournfully. 

"  Certainly  not !  " 

"  Essays  ?  "  brightening  up. 

"  Here,  stop  this ;  I'll  be  giving  it  away  in  a  minute. 
I  won't  say  another  word.  Wait." 

May,  June,  July,  August,  September ;  five  months  of 
guessing.  How  delightful  —  and  how  wicked ! 


XX 

A    CONNOISSEUR    OF    JOY 

BARDEK  and  his  family  had  done  astonishingly 
well  with  the  "  boards  and  plaster  "  of  their 
white-washed  cottage.  It  had  been  something 
more  than  a  novel  experience;  genuine  domestic  roots 
had  sprouted  and  held  him.  Assisted  in  emergencies 
by  Mrs.  Mac,  the  young  wife  fell  into  the  ways  of 
other  women  with  remarkable  instinctiveness,  and  the 
two  babies  flourished  into  rugged  boyhood,  went  to  bed 
like  other  lads,  swam,  quarreled  and  played  miniature 
baseball  with  the  neighbors'  children. 

Perhaps  the  workshop  held  Bardek  more  than  any- 
thing else;  but  he  never  ceased  to  marvel  at  his  own 
surrender. 

"I  let  myself,  I,  Bardek,"  he  would  exclaim  with 
comic  seriousness,  "  be  tied  up  like  dog  with  chain." 

But  he  broke  loose  many  times.  Without  notice  he 
would  be  off;  the  little  white  cottage  would  give  forth 
no  sounds  of  singing  or  scrubbing;  the  children's  shrill 
voices  would  cease.  One  need  not  then  bother  further 
about  Bardek  for  many  days.  Perhaps  the  doors  would 
be  closed,  but  the  windows  rarely;  and  often  the  wash 

was  left  flapping  on  the  line.     It  was  Mrs.  Mac's  eye 

278 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  279 

that  saw  that  everything  was  put  shipshape  after  one 
of  these  abrupt  exoduses. 

"  It  is  good  to  be  away,"  on  his  return  Bardek  would 
say  as  he  dropped  his  pack  before  the  door  and  sniffed 
at  the  well-scrubbed  pine  floors  and  took  in  the  general 
clean-up  which  Mrs.  Mac  could  not  refuse  to  an  untidy 
dwelling.  "  The  kennel  gets  in  the  nose ;  then  one  must 
gnaw  the  rope  and  be  off  and  get  new  scents,  and  so 
to  come  back  glad  to  the  old.  Ah !  Nature  is  a  great 
sweetener  and  cleaner.  Ach!  It  is  good  to  sit  on 
hard  chair!  And  how  strong  and  fine  smell  the 
boards ! " 

And  Mrs.  Mac  would  lean  in  the  doorway  and  listen 
to  his  sighs  of  satisfaction ;  and  her  eyes  and  her  red 
cheeks  would  glow  with  pride. 

Bardek  would  come  back  with  something  more  than 
a  nostalgia  for  boards  and  plaster ;  splendid  orders  he 
would  bring  for  his  own  special  work,  and  enough  for 
Gorgas  to  keep  her  busy  and  prosperous.  After  one 
of  these  journeys  there  would  be  much  excitement  in 
the  "  smitty."  The  lamp  would  burn  at  night.  A 
clean  spot  would  be  cleared,  the  drawing  boards  would 
come  down,  and  design  would  flourish. 

And  now  once  more  had  Bardek  quietly  decamped, 
silently  stole  away  like  the  Arabs. 

His  pilgrimage  was  prolonged  far  beyond  the  usual 
hegira.  April  became  May  and  May  gave  place  to 
June,  but  no  intimation  came  of  the  Bohemians.  Mrs. 
Mac  had  time  to  give  the  cottage  a  complete  house- 


080  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

cleaning,  and  Mac  put  new  whitewash  everywhere,  on 
the  broad  boards  that  made  the  frame  and  on  all  the 
posts,  and  on  the  chicken-houses,  and  on  the  long,  low 
fence  which  encircled  the  garden.  Backed  by  a  per- 
fect mass  of  green  shrubs  and  trees,  and  with  a  mighty 
Norway  maple  sheltering  all,  the  little  cottage  cried  out 
with  welcome,  but  remained  vacant. 

Gorgas  found  herself  almost  helpless  without  the 
daily  consultations  with  the  master.  At  first  she  put 
things  aside  unfinished,  hoping  against  an  early  return, 
but  as  the  days  lengthened  into  summer  and  the  white 
cottage  remained  tenantless,  she  was  forced  to  work 
out  her  problems  alone.  It  was  a  dreary  task,  lacking 
the  companionship  of  that  bubbling  cosmopolitan. 
How  much  he  meant  to  her!  Hardly  had  she  realized 
that  before.  Just  before  he  left,  he  had  seemed  moody 
and  disappointed.  She  resolved  to  be  kinder  to  him; 
to  cease  having  jokes  at  his  expense.  Their  baseball 
slang  seemed  to  annoy  him;  or  was  he  joking,  too? 
One  never  could  tell. 

He  was  rarely  angry,  but  once  she  had  seen  the  inner 
ferocity  of  the  man.  A  group  of  Italian  railway  la- 
borers, sauntering  by  the  "  smitty  "  where  they  had  no 
right  to  be,  had  stopped  to  peer  in  at  the  odd  spectacle 
of  a  girl  blowing  a  forge. 

They  talked  in  their  own  tongue.  It  was  an  unfa- 
miliar patois  to  Gorgas;  although  she  could  compre- 
hend their  general  meaning.  Their  guttural  interroga- 
tion changed  to  amusement;  references  to  the  young 
woman  became  pointed  and  finally  personal.  They  saw, 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  281 

far-off  in  the  corner,  the  thick-set  man  tapping  gently 
at  his  bench,  but  they  rested  secure  in  what  they  were 
accustomed  to  find  an  incomprehensible  speech.  One 
quiet  utterance  from  a  beady-eyed  youth,  who  led  the 
others  in  the  doorway,  set  the  company  in  gusts  of 
laughter,  which  was  followed  by  a  clatter  of  attempts 
to  imitate  their  bold  companion. 

From  the  depths  of  the  "  smitty  "  the  roaring  voice 
of  Bardek  was  suddenly  heard  calling  upon  them  in  their 
own  tongue  to  run  for  their  lives.  A  flying  mallet 
crashed  against  the  door-post  and  rebounded  off  to  the 
leader's  shoulder.  Almost  before  they  could  compre- 
hend the  curses  hurled  at  them,  the  flaming  form  of 
Bardek  appeared  in  the  doorway,  breathing  carefully 
chosen  Italian.  Blows  he  rained  upon  them  and  kicks, 
delivered  with  precision.  In  terrified  rout  they  scat- 
tered, straight  through  Mac's  perfect  garden  and  over 
the  fence,  carrying  part  of  it  with  them.  Had  anyone 
faltered  he  would  probably  have  been  killed. 

It  was  a  half-hour  before  Bardek  subsided;  and  all 
the  while  he  had  bubbled  Italian.  Finally,  little 
chuckles  of  deep  laughter  came  in  flurries  to  the  sur- 
face. The  voluble  cries  and  prayers  of  the  retreating 
Italians  he  repeated,  first  with  irony,  then  with  full 
comprehension  of  their  comic  possibilities. 

"  I  must  have  care,"  he  warned  himself.  "  Inside  I 
am  the  big,  sacred,  mad  bull  of  the  old  Greek,  Dionusos. 
It  is  foolishness.  To  roar  and  kill,  and  for  hot  words, 
little  harmless  words,  puffs  of  silly  wind.  For  just 
that  a  man  may  give  up  a  great  fine  life  which  the  good 


282  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Lord  has  made.  .  .  .  When  I  was  jus'  a  man  I  bellow 
like  that,  in  Wien  it  was,  and  the  man  was  big,  a  great 
Austrian.  .  .  .  We  fight,  and  all  for  words.  He  speak 
against  the  France,  and  I  have  jus*  come  from  the 
France,  and  inside  am  I  all  French."  Bardek  consid- 
ered for  a  moment.  "  It  was  a  bad  day  for  that  big 
Austrian  when  he  speak  against  the  France.  .  .  .  Eh 
bien,  for  that  I  am  here!  .  .  .  Well,  le  bon  Dieu"  he 
shrugged,  "  he  it  is,  not  Bardek,  who  manages." 

But  Bardek  was  not  back,  even  to  tease  with  Ameri- 
can slang,  Bardek  who  hovered  over  her  with  eloquent 
eye,  who  hungered  to  touch  her,  to  smooth  her  fore- 
head and  grip  her  to  him,  but  who  ever  remained  aloof, 
a  picture  of  magnificent  restraint.  Somehow,  she 
hardly  dared  touch  him  herself,  she  who  was  so  free 
with  the  others  that  came  about  the  "  smitty."  The 
mad  bull  of  the  old  Greek,  Dionusos,  seemed  sometimes 
as  if  it  needed  only  a  resting  of  the  hand  on  the  arm 
to  give  signal  for  a  wild  devouring. 

"  I  am  just  like  his  child,"  she  mused,  "  and  —  I  must 
be  honest  —  he  is  more  my  father  than  my  father.  It 
is  wretched  that  we  can't  show  our  affection  in  some 
human  way.  .  .  .  Nom  d'une  pipe!  Why  does  he  not 
come  back !  .  .  .  He  must  stop  this  gallivanting;  I  just 
can't  stand  it." 

One  splendid  June  morning,  as  she  plodded  listlessly 
over  her  bench,  an  answer  came  to  her  call.  It  was 
the  familiar  voice  of  two  noisy  children  disputing  in 
French  over  the  possession  of  the  drinking  dipper.  In 
the  house  they  heard  only  German ;  outside,  the  speech 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  283 

was  French;  on  the  long  pilgrimages  and  on  daily 
prowlings  with  the  father  through  Cresheim,  the  lan- 
guage was  Italian.  The  back-yard  being  undisputed 
French  territory  the  little  Bohemians  were  "  tutoye- 
ing  "  most  belligerently. 

"  Bardek !  "  shouted  Gorgas.  "  Bardek !  "  she  cried, 
and  was  out  of  the  door  and  over  the  white  fence. 

"  La !  la !  la!  la !  mon  enfant !  "  he  shouted  in  reply. 
"  I  come ;  like  the  la  grande  vitesse,  quick  I  come ! " 

Into  each  other's  arms  they  rushed.  He  swung  her 
around  and  kissed  her  hair  and  cried  over  her  like  a 
veteran  of  the  war  returning  safe  to  his  children.  Be- 
fore she  could  recover,  the  boys  had  grabbed  her  knees, 
and  the  ordinarily  stolid  Lady  Bardek  had  swooped 
upon  her  with  much  bubbling  of  Hungarian  and  weep- 
ings and  wet  kissings. 

Bardek  pulsated  language.  One  would  never,  never 
go  away  again!  Oh,  it  was  so  good  to  be  home! 
Never,  never,  would  one  go  away  again;  not  until  the 
next  time  —  eh,  what  ?  —  until  the  soul  grew  sick  with 
sameness  and  ran  away  for  the  pleasure  of  coming 
back.  How  could  one  get  such  joy  without  the  suf- 
fering of  absence?  How  do  you  know  what  you  love 
until  you  try  for  one  little  while  to  give  it  up?  The 
white-faced  bald  heads  who  keep,  keep,  keep ;  ah !  what 
do  they  have  —  nothing.  Life  is  rhythm,  not  still- 
ness ;  back  and  forth,  give  up  and  take  back,  so  swing 
the  tides  of  earth  and  the  bountiful  blessings  of  heaven. 

"  I,"  cried  Bardek,  striking  a  pose,  "  I  am  the  con- 
noisseur of  joy.  It  is  not  given  to  the  rich  to  be 


284  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

happy,  nor  to  the  poor;  both  can  be  very  miserable. 
I  have  studied  and  know  the  secret  of  living.  Here  is 
one  of  my  secrets:  When  you  love  most,  make  it  a 
grand  sacrifice ;  go  away ;  desert ;  fly  for  your  life  from 
that  which  gives  life,  and  some  day  when  you  are  far 
away,  you  hear  the  cry  for  you,  oh !  such  a  pitiful  ten- 
derness, it  make  you  weep  —  inside.  Have  you  loved? 
Oh,  you  thought  yes.  But  now  you  know ;  never  have 
you  believed  to  love  so  much.  Inside  you  have  been 
cleaned  out,  burned  dry,  made  ready  to  receive  the 
blessing.  .  .  .  Then  you  come  back.  Rush  fast? 
Right  away?  Oh,  non!  non!  non!  You  wait.  You 
suffer  some  little  more.  It  is  necessary.  Soon  you 
cannot  rest  where  you  are.  But  yet  you  do  not  rush; 
you  hold  fast  and  slip  slow,  slow,  toward  *  home.'  Ex- 
quisite! The  passion  of  going  nearer,  nearer!  Each 
day  the  miles  on  the  sign-post  say  littler  and  littler. 
Now  it  is  sixty  mile ;  now  it  is  only  forty-free ;  now  it 
is  ten's  and  five's  and  two's.  You  see  all  the  home 
things,  the  skies  and  the  grass  and  the  cows  and  the  — 
ach!  Gott  im  Himmel,  I  cannot  say  it.  ...  Ein  tou- 
sand  ein  hundred  em  und  zwanzig!  I  am  full  of  the 
joy.  It  is  too  much!  " 

Everybody  wept  gloriously.  It  was  the  feast  of 
tears,  a  celebration  of  the  joy  that  cometh  in  the  morn- 
ing. And  they  laughed  and  they  talked  and  they  ran 
through  the  little  house  and  admired  and  patted  and 
loved  and  kissed  even  the  clean  white  crockery. 

"  You  have  miss  me,  eh?  "  Bardek  eyed  her  with  con- 
fidence. 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  285 

Gorgas  nodded. 

"  Ah,  my  child,"  he  patted  her  cheek,  "  now  you 
know,  too.  ...  It  was  pain,  was  it  not?  Ah,  yes. 
It  must  be.  Qui  sait  aimer  salt  mourir.  But  ah !  what 
would  you  give  for  your  suffering?  Eh?  Nothings! 
The  pain  is  part  of  the  joy !  " 

Bardek  came  back  with  something  more  than  ac- 
cumulative joy;  he  brought  cash  for  work  done  and 
orders  for  more.  New  York  city  had  evidently  been 
on  the  route  of  his  travels,  for  a  famous  firm  of  jewelers 
was  on  his  list.  One  knew  better  than  to  question 
Bardek  either  about  his  journeys  or  about  his  past. 
"  Only  the  old  and  the  foolish  chew  over  again  the 
past,"  he  would  say.  "  I  have  been ;  it  is  part  of  me ; 
you  see  it  all  in  my  face,  in  my  talk,  in  my  '  me '  which 
is  thus  transformed :  or  I  have  it  not.  When  I  grow  too 
feeble  to  live  in  the  present,  then,  perhaps,  will  I  live 
in  the  past;  but  more  likely  will  I  take  then  the  quick 
jump  into  the  great  future." 

He  was  eager  to  go  at  his  planning.  The  designs 
were  talked  over;  sketches  made,  discarded  and  ap- 
proved ;  the  material  tested  and  sorted,  and  the  benches 
cleaned  for  action. 

For  several  days  the  "  smitty "  was  too  busy  for 
talk,  except  such  business-like  conversation  as  was 
needed  to  push  the  work  forward;  all  copper  does  not 
anneal  with  the  same  result,  nor  does  all  charcoal  burn 
with  the  same  intensity;  but  after  the  plate,  candle- 
stick, candelabrum  or  vase  had  begun  to  reach  a  half- 
recognizable  shape,  there  would  be  a  lull. 


286  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  How  is  that  Neddie  fellow?  "  Bardek  inquired.  "  I 
don't  see  him  hanging  about  and  making  the  smile  of 
idleness.  More  'home-run,'  eh?" 

She  explained  that  he  was  busy  with  his  medical 
courses  and,  further,  that  Bea  Wilcox  had  laid 
claims  upon  all  his  surplus  time. 

"  Now,  that  is  so  much  better,"  honest  Bardek  nodded 
approval.  "  He  is  nice  boy ;  nice,  clean  boy.  I  like 
—  when  the  day's  work  is  done  —  to  take  him  on  my 
knee  and  sing  sweet,  sleepy  songs,  *  SMaf,  Kindschen, 
schlaf,'  und  so  wetter.  .  .  .  But  he  smoke  too  many 
cigarette:  so  he  will  not  grow." 

"He  is  twenty- two,  Bardek,"  Gorgas  rejoined,  but 
not  disclosing  in  her  tone  any  defense  of  Morris. 
"  That  is  five  years  older  than  I." 

"You!"  Bardek  gazed  at  her.  "Ha!  You!  Lit- 
tle Neddie  will  never  be  so  old  as  Miss  Gorgas.  You 
take  by  years?  Ah,  that  such  wrong  way  to  make 
measure.  Today  the  whole  world  is  one  day  older 
than  yesterday,  but  is  every  man  of  the  world  just  one 
day  older?  Ach,  gar  nichts!  There  are  some  who  have 
lived  —  ah !  how  they  have  lived  while  the  slow  hours 
of  last  night  moved  away !  —  and  there  are  some  who 
have  made  one  jump  from  child  to  man,  and  there  are 
some  baby-women  who  have  in  that  little  day  turned  to 
be  mothers  of  babies,  and  there  are  some  who  have  stood 
jus'  where  they  are,  and  others  who  have  gone  back 
from  jus'  fool  to  imbecile.  The  day,  the  month,  the 
year,  it  is  nothing.  When  I  would  know  the  age  I  do 
not  look  in  the  calendar  —  ach,  neinl  —  I  look  in  the 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  387 

eyes.  Back  of  eyes,  sprawling  out  nicely  on  soft,  gray 
stuff,  is  you!  Jus'  there!"  he  tapped  his  forehead. 
"  In  little  children,  I  have  seen,  back  there,  wise  old 
folks  —  you  were  jus'  such  a  little  wise  one  when  you 
first  came  to  me.  Your  Neddie  is  jus'  boy  —  nice, 
clean,  fresh  boy.  Oh,  he  will  make  nice  man  some  day 
—  if  he  grow  up." 

It  was  difficult  to  know  when  Bardek  spoke  out  of  his 
serious  opinions  or  through  a  desire  to  stir  up  his  listen- 
ers. In  English,  especially,  was  he  hard  to  fathom. 
Sometimes  his  auditors  had  laughed  at  the  wrong  spot, 
had  taken  his  most  earnest  talk  as  if  intended  for  droll 
humor.  It  was  not  prudent  so  to  do ;  for  then  Bardek 
called  on  his  heavy  artillery  of  irony  and  satire,  and 
woe  betide  the  weakling  who  stood  before  him :  the  per- 
sonal blemish  of  his  opponent,  moral  or  physical,  which 
society  had  agreed  to  ignore,  was  trotted  out  for  in- 
spection, caparisoned  with  many  unique  beauties  of 
language.  To  Gorgas,  Ned  Morris  had  seemed  quite 
a  man ;  but  she  deferred  questioning  Bardek  too  closely 
on  that  point. 

Instead,  she  seemed  to  shift  the  subject. 

"  I  envy  you  your  freedom,  Bardek,"  she  sighed. 
"  When  you  want  a  thing,  you  just  go  and  take  it.  If 
you  want  to  cut  loose  you  can  say,  *  Let  her  go,  Gal- 
lagher '  and  boomp !  you're  at  the  bottom.  It  takes 
courage,  I  tell  you.  One  has  to  just  stop  caring  for 
everybody  and  what  everybody  thinks.  I  can't.  I 
can't  be  free.  I'd  like  to  break  away  and,  if  I  wanted 
to,  eat  my  breakfast  in  the  middle  of  Main  street  — 


288  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

in  my  bare  feet,  too ;  but  I  couldn't  do  it.  Not  that  I 
care  an  awful  lot  about  what  folks  say.  It  isn't  ex- 
actly that;  but  I'd  be  scared  stiff.  I  might  get  as 
far  as  Main  street  with  my  oatmeal  and  roll,  but  my 
teeth  would  be  chattering  so  much  from  fright  that 
I  couldn't  get  the  breakfast  down." 

Bardek  thought  the  matter  over  carefully.  Then  he 
eyed  her  seriously  and  asked: 

"  Something  in  your  mind,  it  troubles  you,  eh?  " 

"  Oh,  no." 

He  was  not  convinced. 

"  When  you  have  great  troubles,  tell  somebody. 
Confession  is  good.  That  what  makes  ol'  Mac  such  a 
fine  man.  He  is  always  clean,  is  ol'  Mac.  Every  Sat- 
urday night  he  stand  in  line  and  think  of  the  bad  in 
him  —  it  is  not  much,  but  no  matter  —  then  he  soon 
be  on  his  knees  to  tell  the  father  and  when  he  come  out 
he  is  all  w'ite-wash  inside.  Ol'  Mac,  his  mind  is  not 
always  full  of  dead  matters  and  ferments  and  things 
that  go  bad.  His  mind  is  like  my  house  after  Mrs. 
Mac  have  come  to  slop  hot  soap-water  over  everyt'ing. 
I  know.  Sometimes  I,  too,  go  to  father  and  tell  him 
everything.  .  .  .  No  troubles,  eh?" 

"  Oh,  nothing's  the  matter  with  me,  Bardek ;  that  is, 
nothing  worth  telling." 

"  Very  well,"  he  nodded.  '*  When  you  make  con- 
fession you  must  want  to  do  it.  Your  inside  will  tell 
you  it  is  time  when." 

"  That's  just  what  I  want  to  know,  Bardek,"  she 
brought  him  back.  "  You  listen  to  what  the  *  inside  ' 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  289 

bids  you  do,  and  you  never  question  what  the  *  outside  ' 
would  say.  That's  freedom.  I  wish  I  had  it." 

He  worked  for  some  time  at  his  designing,  as  if  he 
did  not  care  to  discuss  the  matter  further.  Occasion- 
ally, he  looked  over  his  shoulder  at  her,  staring  into 
her  eyes  as  if  to  see  what  was  within. 

"  So  you  would  be  free  ?  "  he  asked  quietly.  "  Well, 
it  is  easy.  But  first,  you  must  know  what  freedom  is 
—  and  that  is  hard.  I  have  had  many  thoughts  about 
freedom  and  have  changed  my  mind  many,  many  times ; 
and  just  now  I  am  not  so  sure  as  I  was  three,  five,  ten 
year  ago.  Once  I  t'ink  freedom  is  *  do  as  you  please.' 
In  America  you  say  that  so  much,  *  I  do  as  I  please.' 
It  is  vairy  nice.  But  '  as  I  please '  is  sometime  not 
nice.  For  one,  two,  three  minutes,  yes.  When  you 
jump  into  nice,  cold  water  and  swim  when  it  is  yet 
April,  '  Oh ! '  you  say,  '  it  is  fine ! '  but  the  next  day 
you  sneeze  and  for  two  weeks  you  have  bad  cold.  That 
not  vairy  nice,  eh?  Now,  I  think  you  have  not  freedom 
then.  You  put  great  chains  on  you  which  keep  you  in 
house  for  two  weeks  when  you  would  please  go  out. 
Sometimes  it  is  freedom  to  be  wise  and  not  do  *  as  I 
please.' 

"  You  t'ink  to  sit  in  Main  street  and  eat  breakfast 
is  freedom.  You  are  right,  quite  right,  if  that  is  what 
you  do  want.  But  also,  you  want  peoples  to  like  you 
and  not  to  laugh  and  touch  the  head  and  say,  *  What 
a  crazy,  silly  child ! '  You  must  choose.  Well,  }TOU 
find  you  didn't  want  to  sit  in  Main  street;  not  at  all. 
It  give  you  just  what  you  don't  want. 


290  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"Life  is  full  of  jus'  that.  'To  do  as  you  please,' 
yes,  that  is  to  be  free.  But  it  is  so  hard  to  know  what 
will  please.  You  want  swim  in  April  spring  water? 
You  do  not  want  cold  in  head  ?  You  cannot  have  both, 
my  child.  Freedom  is  to  know  what  one  to  take.  And 
who  is  to  tell?  It  is  hard,  vairy  hard. 

*'  Then  there  are  the  other  peoples  —  the  great 
crowd,  of  them  I  do  not  think  much  —  but  of  vairy  few, 
my  wife  and  those  big  boys,  and  you,  Miss  Gorgas,  and 
of  ol'  Mac  —  well,  of  them  I  do  care.  To  keep  them 
happy  I  must  not  have  somet'ings.  I  please  not  to 
have  them.  I  want  them  vairy  much  —  oh,  vairy  much 
I  want  them  —  but  so  do  I  want  to  see  the  good  friends 
with  smiling  face.  I  have  freedom  —  yes  —  but  I  lose 
much.  And  it  is  good  to  lose." 

Gorgas  was  thinking  how  similar  were  the  philoso- 
phies of  Bardek  and  Allen  Blynn,  although  each  ex- 
pressed his  point  of  view  in  different  ways.  Here  was 
an  essential  agreement  on  the  mystic  puzzle  of  human 
conduct,  and  by  men  who  looked  upon  life  from  nearly 
opposite  angles.  It  was  as  if  Puritan  and  Cavalier, 
Stoic  and  Epicurean,  Spartan  and  Athenian  had  for 
once  settled  their  eternal  quarrel. 

"  How  did  you  learn  all  this  ?  "  Gorgas  asked. 

"  By  much  troubles  and  much  pains,"  he  shook  his 
head.  "  You  get  one  little  cold  in  head.  Ah !  That 
is  nothing.  You  learn  so  cheap!  But  I?  I  have 
walked  in  blood.  .  .  .  Nom  d'unc  pipe!  how  I  pay  to 
know  so  little !  " 

Whatever  were  the  experiences    that   Bardek   con- 


A  CONNOISSEUR  OF  JOY  291 

jured  up,  it  prevented  further  speech.  So  they  ham- 
mered away  for  the  remainder  of  that  morning  without 
further  discussion.  Occasionally  in  the  pauses  she 
would  hear  Bardek  muttering  his  nom  d'une  pipe!  — 
a  sign  of  great  perturbation. 

And  she  was  glad.  Clearness  had  come  into  her 
thinking.  In  her  mind  now  she  was  certain  of  the 
track  for  a  little  way  ahead.  She  had  asked  about 
freedom  because  she  meant  to  liberate  herself  from  a 
great  thralldom,  but  she  had  feared  the  consequences; 
now  that  she  had  been  taught  to  face  all  the  choices,  all 
the  possible  results,  she  had  chosen  and  was  content. 


XXI 

EVE'S  CHOICE 

MEANWHILE  Allen  Blynn,  packing  up  his  be- 
longings at  the  end  of  the  term,  was  far 
from  either  decision  or  content.  The  fac- 
ulty of  Holden  College  had  divided  bitterly  on  the  ques- 
tion of 'the  introduction  of  "  electives."  Nowadays  elec- 
tives  are  accepted  so  serenely  that  one  forgets  how  sinful 
they  were  some  twenty  or  more  years  ago ;  but  we  shall 
not  here  touch  the  terrible  battle  which  waged  over  the 
contention  of  the  conservatives  that  a  college  senior 
could  not  hope  to  be  a  gentleman  unless  he  had  read 
the  "  Pseudolus  "  of  Maccius  Plautus.  It  is  enough 
to  know  that,  led  by  the  example  of  Eliot  of  Harvard, 
Blynn  had  joined  the  sinful  radicals  and  was  openly 
preaching  the  "  new  education." 

This  young  man,  who  could  be  so  eloquent  with 
Gorgas  Levering  on  the  subject  of  Conservatism  in 
Private  Conduct,  found  himself  an  unwilling  Public  Re- 
former in  Education.  In  his  private  thoughts  he 
bound  the  law  rigorously  upon  himself,  but  in  public  he 
was  an  impatient  radical  demanding  that  Holden  Col- 
lege should  cease  weeping  sentimentally  over  its  eight- 
eenth century  past  and  begin  to  do  its  duty  toward  the 
children  of  the  present  year  of  grace.  He  did  not 

292 


EVE'S  CHOICE  293 

know  that  that  sort  of  inconsistency  is  alarmingly  com- 
mon. A  man  may  be  in  favor  of  freedom  as  regards 
his  country,  but  not  as  regards  the  goings  and  comings 
of  his  wife ;  a  man  may  love  his  neighbor  as  himself  on 
Sundays,  yet  unmercifully  send  promissory  notes  to 
protest  on  Mondays. 

Naturally  the  students  were  solid  for  the  electives 
and  against  Maccius  Plautus  and  all  his  tribe,  and  with 
bonfires  and  shoutings  they  lauded  their  spokesman  on 
the  faculty.  But  it  was  the  newspapers  that  shot  the 
controversy  out  of  its  local  setting  and  made  it  semi- 
national  and  glaringly  notorious.  And  it  was  not  all 
due  to  the  managing  of  Diccon.  Some  men  are  natur- 
ally dramatic ;  all  that  they  do  is  already  good  "  news  " ; 
and  once  in  the  headlines  it  is  almost  impossible  to  keep 
out.  Let  a  lawyer  win  a  scandalous  case  or  a  clergy- 
man defy  his  bishop ;  for  the  remainder  of  his  days  he 
cannot  so  much  as  visit  the  zoological  garden  without 
having  the  matter  publicly  heralded.  The  papers  gave 
space  to  the  Holden  reforms  because  Blynn  was  back 
of  them.  Blynn  could  be  counted  on  for  spectacular 
things.  "  The  Lady  of  the  Interruption  "  had  made 
him  a  perpetual  headliner! 

It  was  a  heavy-hearted  young  man,  therefore,  who 
travelled  toward  Mount  Airy  the  next  morning,  unable 
to  escape  some  of  the  congratulations  or  to  avoid  see- 
ing his  picture  flaring  on  the  inside  page  of  newspapers 
held  by  fellow  passengers.  He  assumed  the  guilty 
skulk  of  an  embezzling  cashier,  fearful  lest  he  should 
find  some  casual  eye  comparing  him  with  the  photo- 


294  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

graph.  He  wondered  what  dreadful  things  they  had 
said  about  him,  but  dared  not  read.  The  newspaper 
"  boys  "  liked  him  —  all  boys  did ;  they  showed  their 
affection  by  writing  him  up  as  if  he  were  a  pedagogic 
Luther,  and  it  made  him  almost  ill.  "  Rumors  "  of  the 
resignation  of  President  Gait  and  the  election  of  Presi- 
dent Blynn  had  been  heard  by  the  astute  scribe.  Dear 
old  Rumor,  patron  saint  of  reporters ! 

Diccon  did  his  share  in  the  home  town;  he  wrote 
beautiful  imitation  telegrams  to  his  paper,  briefly  sum- 
ming up  the  essential  matter  in  dispute  and  making  out 
a  clear  victory  for  their  fellow-townsman,  whose  call  to 
an  important  post  in  another  city  had  been  thus  so 
thoroughly  justified. 

Blynn  protested,  but  Diccon  claimed  to  be  power- 
less. "  You're  '  news  '  now,  old  man,"  he  explained. 
"  Nothing  on  earth  could  keep  you  from  publicity. 
When  newspapers  begin  to  give  you  four  or  five  thou- 
sand dollars'  worth  of  free  advertising,  it  is  because 
they  think  it  pays.  Once  they  have  made  you  fa- 
mous — " 

"  Infamous !  "  suggested  Blynn. 

"  Same  thing  " ;  Diccon  was  undisturbed ;  "  they'd 
do  the  same  by  you  if  you  scuttled  a  hospital  and  got 
off  with  the  job.  When  they  go  in  to  make  you  known 
to  thousands  of  readers  they  have  created  customers 
for  that  sort  of  news.  Every  time  you're  mentioned 
after  that,  they  are  assured  of  satisfied  nods  from 
their  patrons.  You  are  a  continued  story,  a  never- 
ending  serial.  .  .  .  And  you  can't  expect  me  to  howl, 


EVE'S  CHOICE  295 

can  you?  You  have  made  good,  as  I  knew  you  would. 
Well,  that  cleans  my  slate.  No  one  can  say  I  pulled 
for  a  friend.  You  happened  to  be  my  friend,  but  also 
you  happened  to  be  the  best  man  for  the  job." 

"  Accident !  accident !  "  cried  Blynn ;  "  accident  and 
the  absurdity  of  news  values." 

In  that  frame  of  mind  he  dropped  in  on  the  Lever- 
ings.  Mrs.  Levering  and  Kate  were  sewing  on  the 
lawn  at  the  rear  in  the  shade  of  their  huge  chestnut 
trees.  Gorgas  was  in  town  purchasing  materials  for 
the  "  smitty." 

The  old  familiarity  was  there  in  their  greetings  and 
something  of  warmth  due  to  the  natural  joy  in  an- 
other's success ;  but  there  was  also  a  deferential  treat- 
ment due  to  his  newspaper  fame,  which  made  him  un- 
comfortable. 

"  My  dear  Professor  Blynn,"  Mrs.  Levering  beamed 
toward  him,  "  I  do  wish  I  could  get  courage  to  ask  you 
to  glance  over  the  literary  program  of  our  little  club. 
We're  not  at  all  satisfied  with  the  plans  for  next  year ; 
of  course,  we  are  all  amateurs  without  taste  or  knowl- 
edge. But  I'm  afraid  you  are  so  busy  with  — " 

"  Not  at  all !  "  Blynn  broke  in.  "  Do  let  me  work 
with  you.  I  should  be  delighted.  I  have  bushels  of 
time  and  I'll  dig  for  you  like  a  good  gardener,  pro- 
vided —  you  don't  call  me  '  professor.'  " 

"  Oh,  you're  too  modest." 

"Not  at  all;  I'm  too  proud!"  he  laughed.  "In 
America  '  professor '  and  '  doctor '  are  the  inferior 
titles ;  *  Mr.'  is  really  the  mark  of  distinction.  I  like 


296  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

the  way  they  say  '  Mr.'  Eliot  in  Cambridge.  Fancy 
saying  *  Professor '  Eliot  or  even  '  Dr.'  Eliot !  It 
would  be  like  referring  to  Dr.  George  Washington! 
And  he  was  an  LL.  D.,  too ;  both  Harvard  and  U.  of  P. ; 
but  who  remembers  that?  I  have  been  *  professored ' 
all  my  life.  You  don't  know  how  I  yearn  —  like  a 
small  boy  —  to  be  called  *  Mr.'  " 

"  Mr."  was  agreed  upon  by  Mrs.  Levering,  although 
Kate  demurred. 

"  We  always  call  you  '  Allen  Blynn '  when  we  talk 
of  you  here  at  home,"  she  remarked  thoughtfully.  "  I 
always  say  '  Allen.'  You  call  me  Kate ;  perhaps  I  had 
better  dub  you  — " 

"'Pete'— for  Petruchio,"  he  joked.  "You  can't 
tell,  you  know.  Fine  weather  like  this,  the  germ  is 
everywhere."  He  was  reminding  her  of  his  theory  that 
love  was  a  contagion. 

"  I  fear  you  are  immune,"  she  looked  up  from  her 
embroidery  frame  and  searched  his  face  comically. 

His  eyes  had  the  far-off  stare  of  men  who  dream 
much.  Your  thinker  is  no  great  lover,  she  thought. 
He  is  too  busy  with  the  affections  of  his  brain,  the 
little  loves  of  his  own  creation ;  even  in  their  most  ani- 
mated conversations  they  seem  only  to  half  attend  to 
what  is  going  on  about  them. 

"  Please  don't  say  that,"  Blynn  protested.     "  Why, 
vaccination  takes  on  me  terribly.     I  am  awfully  sus- 
ceptible.    You  don't  know  how  I  want  to  be  —  uh  — 
quarantined  and  posted  as  a  dangerous  case." 

Mrs.    Levering   arose.     "  Of   all   nasty   talk ! "   she 


EVE'S  CHOICE  297 

smiled.  "  Germs  and  disease !  I  fear  I  don't  quite 
follow  you  two  young  persons.  And,  besides,  there 
is  a  garden  in  the  back  of  the  house  that  demands  my 
inspection.  Ugh!  How  can  you  laugh  in  the  same 
breath  with  germs !  "  She  moved  off  toward  her  garden. 

"  Where's  the  child  ? "  Blynn  looked  toward  the 
"  smitty." 

"  What  child?  "  Kate  followed  his  gaze.  "  Oh,  Gor- 
gas?  Child!  You  haven't  seen  her  since  spring,  have 
you?  That  child  is  sprouting,  I  tell  you.  She's  taller 
than  I,  by  an  inch  or  two.  And  her  gowns !  She's  been 
spreading  herself  lately!  Gracious!  You  won't  dare 
to  call  her  child  — " 

"  Why,  she's  only  seventeen !  " 

"  In  years,  yes ;  but  in  experience  and  general  get-up 
she  is  twenty-five.  Really,  she's  quite  stunning.  It's 
made  me  spruce  up,  I  can  tell  you.  .  .  .  But,  I'm  not 
sorry,  you  know.  ...  I  say,  I'm  not  sorry." 

"Why?"  coming  back  abruptly  to  the  lady  before 
him. 

"  If  Bianca  has  enough  swains  Katherina  may  have 
a  chance  with  the  left-overs." 

"  Do  you  recall  the  advice  I  gave  you  the  last  time 
we  were  talking  on  this  subject !  "  Blynn  leaned  forward 
and  grew  earnest. 

She  nodded  and  exhibited  her  embroidery. 

"  This  is  all  I'm  fit  for." 

"  Don't  say  that.  It  isn't  fair  to  yourself,  and  it 
isn't  true.  I  wish  you  would  let  me  take  you  in  hand. 
I  have  had  boys  who  have  felt  just  as  you  do,  until  I 


298  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

enticed    them    really    to    get    started    at    something." 

She  agreed  that  it  sounded  exciting,  but  Petruchio 
might  come  along;  one  was  never  without  hope;  and 
then,  smash!  would  go  all  the  toil. 

He  pondered  over  that,  and  questioned  why  a  woman's 
occupation  should  go  smash!  just  because  she  married. 

"  Women  don't  want  any  other  occupation,"  she 
confessed.  "  I  don't." 

"  I  bet  a  dollar  it's  pure  use  and  wont ! "  he  ex- 
claimed. "Nobody  can  tell  what  is  just  custom  and 
what  is  not,  until  after  we're  dead  a  thousand  years. 
Women  don't  throw  themselves  into  careers  with  the 
same  daring  energy  as  men,  because  they  have  to  keep 
such  a  terrible  look-out  for  marriage.  At  any  moment, 
from  around  the  corner,  as  you  once  said,  their  future 
may  assail  them.  It's  almost  as  if  a  young  man  got  up 
in  the  morning  a  barrel-maker  and  by  night  found  him- 
self a  deep-sea  diver !  That's  disconcerting.  I  should 
think  the  excitement  of  guessing  what  might  happen 
would  play  havoc  with  that  cooperage  business." 

They  speculated  on  the  uncertainty  of  a  girl's  life; 
uncertain  until  some  man  decided  for  her. 

"  You  see,"  Kate  explained.  "  A  boy  has  his  for- 
tune to  make  and  knows  it  depends  upon  a  lot  of  ac- 
quired qualities;  and  unless  he's  exceptional  he  can 
predict  pretty  well  what  that  fortune  is  going  to  be. 
All  that  he  has  to  do  is  to  look  at  his  father.  Now  a 
girl,  no  matter  what  her  father  or  mother  may  be,  has 
every  chance  in  the  world.  A  prince  might  choose  her 
-haven't  royal  dukes  married  chorus  girls?  —  or  the 


EVE'S  CHOICE  299 

grocer's  apprentice,  or  the  next  governor  of  the  State, 
or  —  the  head  of  the  division  of  English." 

He  acknowledged  the  point,  but  his  mind  was  con- 
centrated on  something  else. 

"  And  nobody  may  choose  her  at  all,"  he  added  sig- 
nificantly. 

"  But  she  won't  know  that  till  she's  dead,"  Kate  re- 
sponded gaily.  "  And  not  even  then,  perhaps  — '  There 
is  hope  beyond  the  grave,'  you  know ! " 

"  There's  my  point,"  he  stuck  out  an  argumentative 
finger,  his  earnest  eye  quite  showing  that  he  had  missed 
her  light  pleasantry.  "  She  ought  to  know  it  long 
before.  She  ought  to  face  the  fact  of  the  million  or 
so  of  unmarried  women  —  good,  fine  women,  too.  She 
ought  to  presume  from  the  very  beginning  —  her  mother 
should  put  it  into  her  head  —  that  in  all  probability  she 
will  not  marry.  The  dreams  should  be  deliberately 
shaken  out  of  her;  the  years  of  pretty  primping  and 
ogling  I  would  abolish  without  a  qualm.  The  women 
on  parade!  Ugh!  I  fly  from  them  and  find  shelter 
with  the  aged  married  ones. 

"  Now  you,"  he  turned  to  her  with  such  frankness 
as  quite  to  disarm  the  direct  speech.  "  You  live  in  a 
village,  revolving  in  an  eddy ;  it  would  be  a  sheer  acci- 
dent if  your  mate  found  you." 

"I  might  take  Eve's  choice,"  she  reflected.  How 
amused  she  seemed! 

"What  was  that?"  he  interrupted  his  argument. 
The  phrase  was  new  to  him. 

"  The  only  man  available." 


300  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"Ah!  Eve's  choice!  The  only  man  available  and 
the  man  God  created  for  her.  That's  a  wonderful 
choice  and  a  rare  combination  in  history,  you  must 
admit." 

No;  she  must  face  the  facts.  She  was  a  member  of 
the  most  unmarriageable  class  of  women,  those  who 
are  neither  rich  nor  poor,  yet  who  sit  at  home  unknown. 

Mrs.  Levering  could  be  seen  occasionally  hovering 
over  her  garden.  Once  or  twice  she  stood  erect,  her 
ample  figure  surrounded  by  all  the  flowers  of  June,  and 
surveyed  with  satisfaction  the  two  earnest  young  per- 
sons. A  few  more  such  tete-a-tetes,  that  was  all.  Let 
them  be  together.  Somehow,  she  felt  that  she  had  man- 
aged things  excellently.  Some  persons  would  take 
credit  for  the  laws  of  nature.  If  the  sun  should  shine 
brightly  on  her  lawn  party  she  would  accept  congratu- 
lations as  if  it  were  a  right  tribute  to  her  cleverness. 

"  You'll  do,  Allen  Blynn,"  Mrs.  Levering  remarked 
to  a  drooping  rose-bud.  Allen  was  talking  earnestly 
with  head  and  hands.  Kate  seemed  to  be  looking  ab- 
sently away.  "  But  Keyser  Levering  will  have  to  be 
spoken  to,"  she  added.  "  I'm  afraid  she  is  too  cold." 

Then  she  ordered  Louisa  to  prepare  a  platter  of 
sweet  cakes  and  an  iced  lemon  drink,  carefully  con- 
cocted to  suit  the  warm  weather. 

She  might  have  recalled  the  order  if  she  had  known 
at  that  moment  Allen  Blynn  was  proving  to  Keyser 
Levering  that  as  marrying  for  her  was  probably  out  of 
the  question  it  behooved  her  instantly  to  find  a  sensible 
life-job! 


EVE'S  CHOICE  301 

And  she  found  it.  By  accident  the  work  that  she 
was  destined  to  do  unfolded  to  her.  And  by  the  same 
accident  Allen  Blynn  found  his  own  work. 


XXII 

TOP-O'-THE-HILL 

Through  the  deep 

Hood  of  the  woods  a  murmur  seemed  to  creep, 
The  Schuylkill  whispering  in  a  voice  of  sleep. 
All  else  was  stilL    The  oxen  from  their  plows 
Rested  at  last,  and  from  their  long  day's  browse 
Came  the  dun  files  of  Krisheim's  home-bound  cows. 

—  From  The  Pennsylvania  Pilgrim. 

AS  Mrs.  Levering,  flanked  by  Louisa  and  the 
refreshments,  moved  toward  them,  Kate 
shifted  the  subject. 

"  Did  you  know  I  have  been  coaching  the  Croft 
boy?" 

"  No ! "  he  was  surprised.  "  He  hasn't  said  any- 
thing to  me  about  it.  Since  when?  " 

"  Practically  all  winter." 

"  Well !  well !  "  he  ej  aculated.  "  I  thought  that  chap 
was  coming  up  strong.  You  quite  take  the  wind  out 
of  my  sails.  I  had  been  giving  myself  all  sorts  of 
kudos  over  that  case.  And  here  it's  you,  all  the  time. 
How  did  it  happen  ?  " 

"  He  brought  me  over  one  of  your  letters,"  she  ex- 
plained as  she  helped  with  sugar.  "  Your  stenogra- 
pher by-the-hour  had  mixed  up  an  important  direction. 

He  disliked  to  ask  you  about  it  —  you  know  how  shy 

302 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  303 

he  is  —  so  he  put  it  to  me.  I  puzzled  it  out ;  we  be- 
came very  well  acquainted  and  began  to  hold  regular 
irregular  sessions  together.  ...  I  enjoyed  your  let- 
ters immensely.  Once,  you  took  him  to  task  about  a 
stupid  error  which  was  really  mine.  He  had  a  good 
laugh  at  me,  I  can  tell  you.  Isn't  he  a  pathetic  little 
fellow?" 

"  He'll  be  a  great  thinker  some  day,"  Blynn  avowed. 
"  You'll  be  proud  of  your  share  in  the  making  of 
him." 

Mrs.  Levering  was  pleased  to  hear  them  discussing 
methods  of  pedagogy  so  intimately. 

"  You'll  have  Keystr  turning  school-mistress,  yet," 
she  suggested.  But  her  smile  showed  that  she  had  no 
such  fear. 

"  And  why  not ! "  Blynn  seized  the  idea.  "  Oh,  I 
don't  mean  the  regular  kind;  normal  training,  public 
school  and  all  that  sort  of  thing.  That's  fine,  too ;  but 
it's  overcrowded  with  women,  and  the  whole  business 
is  set  like  a  plaster  cast.  I  almost  despair  of  seeing 
any  development  there;  routine  and  habit  have  fas- 
tened themselves  upon  the  institution.  I  have  dreams 
of  another  kind  of  teacher,  something  like  Pestalozzi, 
gathering  his  little  ones  about  him  and  teaching  them 
without  ever  their  being  aware." 

He  told  them  about  Pestalozzi.  When  the  scourge 
of  war  swept  over  Switzerland  in  1798  neither  men  nor 
women  were  spared.  It  was  a  massacre.  Pestalozzi's 
heart  went  out  to  the  children.  In  a  ruined  convent 
on  the  shores  of  Lake  Lucerne,  he  gathered  the  de- 


304  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

serted  little  ones  about  him  and  shared  their  suffer- 
ings. They  had  neither  home  nor  parents,  and  they 
were  hungry.  "  I  cannot  fight,"  he  said ;  "  I  cannot 
raise  my  hand  against  my  brother;  but  the  children  of 
my  brother,  the  fatherless  children,  these  I  can  serve, 
their  piteous  little  bodies  I  can  save,  and  their  starving 
desolate  souls."  Blynn  darted  into  the  library  and 
brought  out  a  book  and  read  them  Pestalozzi's  own 
story.  "  '  My  hand  lay  in  their  hand,  my  eye  was  their 
eye.  my  tears  flowed  with  their  tears,  and  my  laughter 
mingled  with  their  laughter.  They  were  out  of  the 
raging  world;  they  were  with  me,  and  I  was  with  them. 
Their  meat  was  mine,  their  drink  was  mine.  I  had 
nothing,  no  friends,  no  servants;  I  had  them  alone. 
When  they  were  well  I  stood  in  their  midst;  when  thejr 
were  ill  I  was  at  their  side.  I  was  the  last  who  went 
to  bed  at  night,  the  first  who  rose  in  the  morning. 
Even  in  bed  I  prayed  and  talked  with  them  until  they 
were  asleep, —  they  wished  it  to  be  so.' ' 

Blynn  closed  the  book  reverently.  "  They  say  he 
was  an  unhandsome  man,  but  that  he  had  a  wonderful 
transforming  smile.  He  saw  into  the  heart  of  children. 
I  should  be  happy  if  I  were  that  sort. 

"  My  dream  is  to  have  just  such  a  school,"  Blynn 
continued.  "  I  have  even  gone  as  far  as  to  pick  out 
the  site  —  off  in  Cresheim  Valley.  We  should  have  to 
select  our  teachers  with  the  utmost  care.  They  must 
be  gifted  to  communicate  freely  with  children.  Com- 
munication is  everything.  I  don't  care  much  about 
what  they  know,  although  we  must  have  skill  there,  too, 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  305 

especially  in  art  work  and  languages ;  but  the  main 
thing  in  teaching  is  not  knowledge,  but  wisdom." 

Mrs.  Levering  voiced  the  discontent  of  parents  with 
schools  as  they  are  and  expressed  the  belief  that  there 
would  be  no  difficulty  in  securing  paying  pupils. 

"  It  would  be  a  great  joy  to  spend  one's  life  at  that 
task,"  he  mused. 

"  Why  don't  you  ?  "  Kate  inquired  quietly. 

Well,  he  was  a  professor  of  English ;  that  was  the 
first  reason.  His  studies  had  all  been  to  prepare  him 
for  scholarship.  One  could  not  go  against  one's  life 
preparation.  The  main  reason  seemed  to  be  the  mat- 
ter of  expense.  Elisha  might  begin  such  an  undertak- 
ing, but  not  without  the  ravens.  It  costs  money  even 
to  do  good.  To  open  such  a  school  and  keep  it  going 
would  require  a  never-ending  store  of  health  and  good 
cheer.  The  vitality  of  the  staff  would  be  absolutely 
essential  to  its  life.  Worry  over  money  or,  worse,  the 
necessity  of  putting  good  energy  into  outside  work  — 
that  would  wear  down  the  most  courageous  spirit  and 
would  mean  slow  failure. 

But  his  mind  was  on  the  theme.  He  sketched  the 
ideal  environment  for  children  as  he  saw  it  clear  before 
him.  There  should  be  much  out  of  doors,  and  glorious 
muscle-stretching  play;  health  should  come  first,  and 
then  the  searching  discovery  of  individual  aptitude. 
The  world's  store  of  necessary  information  would  be 
transferred  as  naturally  and  as  imperceptibly  as 
growth.  The  children  would  never  once  object;  the 
enormous  turbines  of  curiosity  would  actually  drive 


306  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

them  along;  give  a  child  half  a  chance  and  he  will 
question  himself  into  intelligence. 

And  what  a  pace  these  youngsters  would  travel !  He 
had  one  boy  —  one  of  his  "  cases  "  whom  he  taught 
personally  and  by  correspondence  —  who  had  done 
four  years  of  grammar  school  work  in  eight  months. 

"  He  was  not  forced,"  Blynn  explained ;  "  he  was 
enticed  to  discover  his  speed.  We  dawdle  mightily 
in  our  long  years  of  preparation.  Think  of  deciding 
before  you  were  born  that  you  must  not  study  fractions 
until  you  are  eleven  years  of  age!  You  should  see 
some  of  my  six-year-old  lads  eat  up  fractions !  They 
love  'em!  Especially  the  vulgar  and  the  improper 
ones ! " 

"  Allen  Blynn,"  Kate  remarked,  "  with  all  your  gift 
for  discovering  the  genius  of  others,  you  haven't  found 
out  your  own  ability." 

"  And  what  is  that,  pray  ?  " 

"  At  heart  you're  not  really  a  college  professor  — " 

"  I  believe  you,"  earnestly.  "  I'm  afraid  I  *  profess  ' 
for  a  livelihood  and  for  the  excitement  that's  in  it. 
The  racket  I've  stirred  up  in  Holden ;  phew !  But  what 
can  I  do  ?  "  he  spread  out  his  hands  pathetically.  "  I 
am  *  professing '  because  scholarship  is  not  endowed. 
Scholarship  and  teaching !  They  are  the  antipodes ! 
Scratch  a  fine  scholar  and  you'll  probably  find  a 
wretched  teacher." 

"  I  doubt  if  you  are  even  a  scholar,"  she  persisted. 

"  Please  be  more  careful,  Keyser,"  Mrs.  Levering 
looked  up  from  her  sewing.  "  You  mustn't  be  flippant, 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  307 

you  know.  That's  one  of  the  things  the  Leverings  do 
not  do,  whatever  else  they  may  be  guilty  of." 

"  I'm  very  much  in  earnest,  mother,"  Kate  continued. 
"  Allen  Blynn  is  a  genius  with  little  children.  He 
should  be  a  primary  teacher,  that's  — " 

"  Gracious !  "  Mrs.  Levering  stared.  "  Why  not 
hire  him  as  a  coachman  or  gardener !  Primary  teacher ! 
That's  a  sort  of  public  nursery  governess,  isn't  it?  " 

Blynn  was  regarding  Kate  in  deep  perplexity. 

"  Remember  Pestalozzi,"  she  ignored  her  mother. 
"  You  have  just  his  spirit  and  just  his  gift.  You  have 
something  of  his  face,  too.  Oh,  I  know  they  say  he  was 
a  plain  man,  but  they  called  Lincoln  that.  Few  peo- 
ple understand  the  beauty  of  ruggedness  — " 

"  Thanks,"  he  bowed. 

"  Children  always  understand.  And  they  thoroughly 
comprehend  you,  Allen  Blynn.  I  have  watched  you  at 
your  work.  It's  —  it's  just  great!  That's  your  job, 
sir!" 

"  Oh,  I  hope  you're  right,"  he  glowed  innocently. 
"Wouldn't  it  be  fine!  You  could  help-  There! 
That's  your  job,  madam !  " 

"  And  Gorgas  could  do  the  shop  end  — "  Kate  put 
in  enthusiastically. 

"  And  Bardek !  "  remembered  Allen.  "  Wouldn't  he 
be  a  cracker- jack  at  the  languages! — " 

"And  Mac,"  remarked  Mrs.  Levering  satirically. 
"  He  could  teach  horsemanship  and  stabling." 

"  Why  not !  "  exclaimed  both  Kate  and  Allen.  "  Mac 
cares  for  horses  the  way  everybody  should  care 


308  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

for  children,"  said  one.  "  He's  the  sort  of  teacher  I 
should  want  for  myself,"  said  the  other. 

And  so  they  chattered  until  Allen  remembered  that 
the  lack  of  funds  stood  forever  in  the  way. 

"  But  I  couldn't  finance  it,"  he  concluded  gloomily. 
"  I'm  no  good  at  the  money  business.  If  a  man  owed 
me  fifty  dollars  —  there  are  several  who  do !  —  I'd 
never  get  it  unless  he  volunteered  to  pay.  That's  the 
reason  I  enjoy  my  *  cases  '  so  much.  If  anyone  forced 
me  to  accept  money  I  would  decamp.  I  have  no  finan- 
cial ability." 

"  Neither  had  Pestalozzi,"  Kate  reminded  him. 

"To  be  sure  he  hadn't,"  he  mused.  "But  that's 
why  he  failed." 

"  But  he  didn't  have  a  manager." 

"  Neither  have  I." 

"  Let  me  take  the  post  ?  " 

For  the  first  time  Mrs.  Levering  saw  some  sense  in 
their  talk.  A  secret  admiration  for  the  daughter's 
astuteness  almost  showed  in  her  face. 

"  Just  you  let  Keyser  manage  for  you,  Mr.  Blynn," 
the  mother  nodded  her  head  significantly.  "  She  runs 
this  house  —  and  everybody  in  it.  When  it  comes  to 
money  Keyser  can  do  wonders  on  nothing." 

"  I  can  believe  it,"  laughed  Blynn.  "  Pennsylvania- 
German  thrift  is  notorious.  But  how  could  you  *  man- 
age '  ?  We  haven't  a  red  cent." 

"  Let  us  see,"  Kate  searched  among  her  sewing  things 
for  paper  and  pencil.  "  What  is  your  income  outside 
of  your  salary  at  Holden?  " 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  309 

"  How  can  you  be  so  impertinent  ?  "  the  mother  in- 
terfered. 

"  Oh,  no,"  Blynn  urged.  "  This  is  not  impertinent, 
it's  important.  She  should  ask  that  first.  It  will  bring 
the  school  of  cards  down  at  the  first  shot.  Outside 
of  salary  and  lectures  and  writings,  my  sure  income  is 
exactly  $96  per  annum,  the  rental  of  Bardek's  house. 
I  have  a  half-dozen  other  small  properties.  Sometimes 
I  have  had  as  much  as  $600  a  year.  It  practically 
put  me  through  college.  Of  course,  mother  has  her 
own.  Just  at  present  I  am  pulling  about  $300.  The 
reason  I  know  is  that  I  have  just  had  an  annual  report 
from  the  agent.  But  Bardek  is  the  only  sure  tenant. 
The  dream's  up,  my  lady ;  oats  is  too  high." 

"Do  you  think  so?"  she  was  calmly  figuring. 
"  Please  let  me  do  the  managering,  if  I  am  to  be  man- 
ager." After  a  moment  or  two  of  consideration  she 
looked  up  satisfied.  But  first  she  asked  questions. 
They  included  a  complete  list  of  his  "  cases."  Along- 
side of  each  one  she  checked  those  who  could  pay  and 
those  who  could  not. 

"  Here's  my  scheme,"  she  showed  him  her  paper. 
"  I'll  rent  you  five  acres  of  woodland  for  the  grounds. 
There's  a  good  stone  house  there.  It  needs  fixing  up. 
I'll  attend  to  that.  It's  just  off  the  old  mill  above 
Cresheim  Creek,  where  the  road  forks  and  goes  up,  you 
know,  at  the  top  of  the  hill." 

"  *  Top-o'-the-Hill ! '  "  he  exclaimed.  "  We'll  call  it 
4  Top-o'-the-Hill.'  But,"  ruefully,  "  where  are  we  go- 
ing to  get  the  rent  ?  " 


310  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  On  the  premises,"  she  continued.  "  I  shall  retain 
51%  of  the  stock  and  demand  one  wild  rose  paid  to 
me  every  year  with  proper  literary  ceremonies." 

"A  Pageant  of  the  Wild  Rose,"  said  he.  "We 
shall  crown  you  queen  and  I  will  recite.  Listen! 
Wouldn't  this  be  nice  and  lugubrious.  It's  old  Dick 
Fanshawe's  fancy  of  complimenting  his  lady-love  three 
hundred  years  ago." 

He  began  with,  "  Blown  in  the  morning,  thou  shalt 
fade  ere  noon " —  but  she  interrupted  at  the  first 
line. 

"  I  should  particularly  fancy  that  when  I  am  grow- 
ing aged  and  the  petals  begin  to  drop  off.  But  to 
come  down  to  business,"  the  manager  referred  to  her 
paper ;  "  would  keeping  up  your  outside  lectures  be  too 
much  for  you  ?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  he  rejoined.  "  That  is  mere  play.  I 
figured  out  once  that  I  could  just  about  make  a  living 
by  giving  one  or  two  series  each  year." 

"  Well,  then,  that's  disposed  of,"  she  resumed.  "  We 
could  charge  $100  a  year  to  each  pupil  I  have  checked 
on  this  list,  and  let  the  others  come  in  free.  Bardek 
and  Gorgas  and  I  would  serve  without  pay.  I  don't 
need  it  and  the  other  two  are  making  lots  of  money. 
They  really  ought  to  contribute  something.  We  can 
guarantee  you,  with  your  lectures  and  your  rentals," 
she  verified  carefully  the  totals  in  her  memoranda, 
"  two  thousand  a  year  at  the  least,  which  ought  to  be 
enough.  When  we  can  afford  it  we'll  take  all  your 
time.  And  we'll  see  about  those  houses  of  yours,  too; 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  311 

just  put  them  in  my  hands  and  I'll  boost  your  cash 
account,  I  have  some  of  that  same  sort  of  property 
myself  and  you  bet  your  buttons  I  don't  let  any  agent 
monkey  with  them." 

Gorgas  bounded  in  with  a  roseate  greeting,  and 
after  her  gown  had  been  admired  the  project  was  gone 
over  again. 

"  I'd  love  it,"  she  chirped.  "  Let  me  pay  all  the 
bills.  I've  got  loads  of  money." 

They  talked  of  the  business  and  of  the  proposal  for 
awhile  and  then  drifted  into  an  animated  discussion  of 
methods.  The  children  must  spend  the  whole  day 
with  them.  There  would  be  a  fine  midday  dinner,  a 
powerful  educational  instrument.  They  would  teach 
the  three  r's  and  all  the  informational  necessities,  but 
they  would  also  cultivate  the  graces  of  cheerfulness,  un- 
selfishness, fair  play,  courage,  restraint  and  table  man- 
ners. There  should  be  no  scoldings  and  no  punish- 
ments ;  and  while  they  might  talk  and  sing  and  even 
dance  in  languages,  there  should  be  no  conjugations! 
And  there  would  be  tree  climbing,  and  sledding,  base- 
ball and  tennis  and  swimming  and  skating  and  riding, 
and  dancing,  all  a  part  of  the  course  of  study.  They 
even  got  so  far  as  outlining  a  prospectus  and  selecting 
a  name.  Of  a  host  of  suggestions,  "  Top-o'-the-Hill  " 
remained  first  choice. 

"  It  is  from  the  top  of  that  hill,"  said  Blynn,  "  that 
I  always  see  Whittier's  '  dun  files  of  Krisheim's  home- 
bound  cows '  and  hear  them  clanking  their  bells  up  the 
rough  road.  Do  you  know,  milady,"  he  turned  to 


312  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Kate,  "  that  John  Greenleaf  Whittier  wrote  a  consid- 
erable poem  on  our  little  Valley  ?  " 

"Did  he?"  she  asked,  with  a  smiling  lack  of  inter- 
est. "  I  am  not  very  poetic,  you  know  —  just  a  prac- 
tical person  who  owns  some  earth,  the  very  spot  for 
your  school." 

A  messenger-boy  bicycled  slowly  along  the  road, 
peering  here  and  there  at  houses  on  either  side.  He 
stopped  to  inquire  at  the  Williams'  and  came  back  to 
the  Levering  gate.  Mrs.  Levering  walked  forward. 
Gorgas,  Kate,  and  Allen  were  lost  in  their  discussion. 

"  It's  a  telegram  for  you,  Mr.  Blynn,"  Mrs.  Lever- 
ing handed  him  the  envelope.  "  Your  mother  sent  him 
over  here.  It  is  prepaid.  I  have  signed  for  you." 

His  face,  after  he  had  read  the  paper  carefully,  gave 
the  three  women  a  fright,  but  he  hastened  to  reassure 
them. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  good  news,"  he  said ;  "  I  don't  know. 
It  really  frightens  me."  He  searched  their  faces  hesi- 
tantly, then  decided.  "  I  am  told  to  keep  this  infor- 
mation strictly  to  myself,  but  I'm  sure  it  will  not  do 
harm  to  tell  you,  especially  Gorgas  and  Kate,  after  all 
your  beautiful  plans.  I'm  afraid  they're  knocked  sky- 
high.  It  is  from  Diccon.  He  is  at  Holden  now  at- 
tending a  special  meeting  of  the  trustees.  Oh,  it's 
really  dreadful." 

He  read: 

"  Strictly  private  information  not  yet  made  public. 
President  Gait  will  resign  to  take  effect  next  term.  He 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL 

goes  on  retirement  at  full  salary.  Trustees  to  engi- 
neer a  monster  farewell  dinner  of  alumni.  He  goes  out 
covered  with  laurels.  Says  he  recognizes  time  to  make 
a  climax  of  his  life-work  and  will  leave  the  working  out 
of  the  new  plans  to  younger  hands.  He  is  not  unfavor- 
able to  you  as  his  successor.  Straw  vote  of  board 
shows  you  to  be  the  candidate  of  majority  for  presi- 
dency. Come  to  Holden  immediately.  Don't  see  any- 
body; don't  decide  anything.  Above  all,  don't  talk. 
Remember  you  know  nothing.  Wire. 

"  DICCON." 

"  How  perfectly  splendid ! "  exclaimed  Mrs.  Lev- 
ering. 

The  other  members  of  the  group  looked  like  a  trio 
of  sentenced  convicts. 

"  How  can  you  say  that,  mother ! "  Kate  spoke 
sharply.  "  Everything  was  so  lovely  —  and  now 
there'll  be  no  Top-o'-the-Hill." 

"  It's  beastly,"  snapped  Gorgas.  "  I  hate  Holden ; 
always  did.  Squabbling,  little,  petty  kid-factory." 

"  It's  awful!  "  murmured  the  candidate  of  a  majority 
of  the  trustees. 

But  eventually  they  talked  off  their  disappointment 
and  began  to  see  things  from  a  less  personal  point  of 
view.  Blynn  showed  them  the  absurdity  of  his  own 
qualifications;  there  were  other  men  in  the  faculty  to 
whom  the  elevation  would  be  not  only  welcome  but  de- 
serving. 

"  I  am  an  accident,"  he  went  on.     "  I  got  into  the 


3H  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

limelight.  I  took  other  men's  ideas  and  had  the  spokes- 
man role.  Everybody  understood ;  I  made  no  secret  of 
it.  Some  folks  can  talk  and  others  can't.  That's  all 
there  is  to  it.  ...  I  suppose  I'm  a  dramatic  sort  of 
chap.  Diccon  says  I  am.  I  get  heated  up  with  en- 
thusiasm, the  preacher  in  me  comes  to  the  front,  and  I 
splutter  figures  of  speech.  ...  In  my  lectures  it  comes 
out,  and  when  I  get  the  most  applause,"  he  bowed  his 
head,  "  I  am  the  most  ashamed.  I  like  to  thrill  'em, 
work  the  stops,  soft  pedal,  vox  humana  and  all  that. 
I  don't  mean  to  play  on  their  feelings.  I  am  honest 
with  my  own  feelings  but  —  there's  the  trouble !  —  I  do 
have  feelings ;  and  I  show  'em. 

"  It's  my  running  tongue  that  got  me  in  this  fix. 
Why  does  everybody  put  such  foolish  value  on  the 
talker !  Talkers  ought  to  be  suppressed !  " 

Gorgas  came  to  her  senses  first. 

"  I'm  over  my  mad  now,"  she  said.  "  Of  course, 
you've  got  to  go,  whether  you  want  to  or  not.  They 
call  it  duty,  I  believe.  That  means  something  disagree- 
able that  your  insides  won't  let  you  shirk.  You  can't 
back  out,  Allen  Blynn.  I  advised  you  to  go  to  Holden. 
In  fact,  I  had  just  this  thing  in  mind.  I  wanted  you 
to  be  big  and  famous  and  talked  about.  Well,  you 
are.  I'm  not  happy  about  it.  This  splendid  idea  of 
a  school  in  Cresheim  Valley  where  we  could  all  work  to- 
gether and  be  somebodies  ourselves  —  it's  an  awful 
come-down  to  have  to  chuck  it  — 

"  Gorgas !  "  mildly  from  Mrs.  Levering.     "  That  talk 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  315 

doesn't  go  at  all  with  your  lady-like  clothes.  I  wish 
you  wouldnt  say  '  chuck  it.' ' 

"  Mother,  I'm  almost  tempted  to  say  '  Rats ! ' : 

"  Horrors !  "  the  mother  flung  up  her  hands.  '*  Say 
*  chuck  it '  if  you  must.  That  other  word  is  posi- 
tively vulgar.  I  can't  see  why  so  many  nice  young 
boys  and  girls  use  such  slang.  Slang  of  the  right  sort, 
Mr.  Blynn,  I  don't  mind ;  but  the  latest  corruptions  of 
the  language  are  just  low.  Don't  toss  those  gloves  on 
the  ground,  Gorgas,  even  if  you  do  pay  for  them  your- 
self. You  have  no  proper  reverence  for  fine  clothes." 

"  I'm  ready  to  swear,  mother,  at  any  moment.  Look 
out !  "  Gorgas  smiled  grimly. 

"  Ein  tousand  em  hundred  ein-und-zwanzig!  "  helped 
Blynn.  He  was  beginning  to  recover  from  the  shock. 

"  Name  of  the  name  of  a  pipe!  "  she  added,  and  sug- 
gested, "  Let's  talk  it  over  with  Bardek." 

"  Good !  "  everyone  agreed,  and  they  were  off  to  the 
white  cottage. 

Bardek  was  riding  both  children  on  his  back,  a 
French  lancer  charging  flying  Germans.  The  air  was 
full  of  rippling  French,  fierce  manifestations  of  ancient 
hatred.  The  children  were  echoing  every  annihilating 
threat. 

"  You  see  at  once  a  lesson  in  patriotism  and  sav- 
agery and  the  French  language,"  he  explained  after  he 
had  dismissed  the  cavalry.  "  The  professor  has  come 
back.  Good ! "  He  shook  hands  effusively.  "  Do 
not  be  afraid.  I  will  not  kiss  you.  See!  I  hold  my- 


316  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

self  back.  It  is  for  me  a  lesson  in  courage;  I  subdue 
the  flesh."  He  beat  his  breast  like  St.  Jerome.  "  Sit, 
children,"  he  pointed  to  the  collection  of  large  flat- 
topped  rocks  which  flanked  his  door. 

They  talked  all  together  and  told  him  of  "  Top-o'- 
the-Hill "  and  the  imminent  presidency  of  Holden.  The 
latter  topic  did  not  reach  Bardek  at  all. 

"That  Top-o'-the-Hill,"— he  called  it  "  Tope-o-t'- 
Heel  " — "  it  is  grand !  I  would  like  that  —  oh,  so 
much.  The  *  smithy  '  it  is  good  —  it  keep  me  alive  and 
it  make  me  forget  —  but  to  teach  the  little  children,  zat, 
my  friends,"  tears  came  to  his  eyes  and  his  English  went 
to  pieces,  "  is  what  I  —  it  is  what  —  in  English  I  can- 
not," he  blurted  in  torrential  French.  "  That  is  what 
I  am,  teacher  of  children.  In  £cole  Nouvelle  at 
Grenoble  I  taught  the  little  ones  the  languages !  I  can 
do  that ;  ah,  how  well  I  can  do  that !  —  I  have  the  cer- 
tificate of  the  University  of  Naples!  "  he  roared,  and 
struck  an  attitude.  "  And  I  am  bachelier  eg  lettres  de 
I'Universite  de  Bordeaux!" 

The  group  was  tremendously  impressed.  They  told 
him  so  noisily,  and  soothed  his  pride. 

"  But  in  my  silliness,"  he  slipped  into  his  normal 
self,  "  I  fight  the  big  Austrian  and  then  I  must  go  away. 
This  I  should  not  tell  you,  but  —  it  is  told." 

It  was  hard  to  break  his  enthusiasm.  Little  by  lit- 
tle it  came  to  him  that  Top-o'-the-Hill  was  a  dream. 
He  held  himself  in  with  great  restraint  while  Holden  and 
its  presidency  was  put  before  him. 

"  You  should  go,  my   friend,"  he  advised  quietly. 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  317 

"  It  is  a  great  honor  —  to  be  president  of  a  big  uni- 
versity and  you  so  young.  These  other  little  schools 
for  little  fellows,  they  can  be  made  by  anybody;  but 
the  university,  it  is  vairy  important.  When  the  time 
comes  to  succeed,  one  must  not  go  back  of  the  gods 
who  send  things.  I  have  always  had  my  will;  I  have 
laughed  at  fortune  and  I  have  been  happy.  But  I 
know  what  it  is  to  have  the  great  thought  in  the  brain 
to  go  up,  up,  up  and  be  a  man  famous.  They  tell 
me  you  have  that  already.  They  talk  about  you  out 
in  the  great  world  there,"  he  seemed  deeply  thought- 
ful over  such  honors.  "  And  it  is  right.  You  are 
good.  And  you  should  not  turn  away  from  the  big 
world  and  be  like  ol'  Bardek,  who  has  nothings  but  for 
you  kind  friends.  It  is  not  always  happy  to  be  exile 
and  live  like  pig.  ...  So  we  must  not  have  the  little 
school  at  the  top  o'  the  hill?  It  is  a  great  pity  —  for 
me,  and  for  the  little  fellows.  Norn  d'une  pipe!  "  he 
grew  more  and  more  agitated.  "  What  a  thing  to 
choose  between,  honors  and  presidents  —  and  the  little 
fellows.  Oh,  it  is  nice  to  have  your  name  in  beeg 
preent  and  to  have  all  the  little  men  bow  and  look  up 
at  you  —  but  nom  du  nom  d'une  pipe!  "  His  agita- 
tion increased.  "  It  would  not  do  to  make  Bardek 
to  choose.  I  would  put  in  one  hand  all  the  great  noth- 
ings of  the  universities  and  poof!"  he  blew  savagely. 
"It  is  wort'  one  good  laugh  —  jus'  that.  .  .  .  But," 
he  recovered  himself,  "  men  are  not  the  same.  And  it 
is  good.  A  world  full  of  Bardeks !  Hoi,  yoi !  It 
would  be  the  ol'  devil  who  would  have  to  laugh.  .  .  . 


318  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

I  do  not  want  to  discourage  you,  my  friend.  Go  to 
your  little  place.  The  world  will  call  it  with  big 
name.  Maybe  you,  after  while,  will  believe  it,  too. 
That  is  the  way  wit'  man.  Go  on!  Be  busy  all  day 
at  typewriter.  Run!  Hurry!  .  .  .  Smile  and  laugh 
when  you  would  better  cry!  Go  up!  Be  success! 
But  I  am  so  sorry  that  we  not  have  zat  Tope-o'-t'-Heel. 
Nom  d'une  pipe!  " 

Bardek  turned  abruptly  and  marched  like  a  cor- 
poral of  the  guard  straight  into  his  white  cottage. 
Kate  stepped  on  ahead  down  the  path  and  disappeared 
within  the  house.  Gorgas  pumped  Allen's  hand  at 
parting  as  if  to  assure  him  that  although  convicted  and 
sentenced  she  would  stand  by  him  no  matter  what  public 
opinion  said. 

"  This  spoils  something  else  for  me,"  she  said.  "  I 
can't  talk  about  it  now.  Don't  ask.  When  do  you  go 
up  to  Holden?" 

"  Tonight,  I  fear,"  he  confessed  guiltily. 

"  You  will  write  to  me  ?  " 

"  Oh,  I  shall  be  gone  for  only  a  day  or  two,  a  week 
at  the  most.  But  I'll  write  anyway,"  he  read  her  face, 
"  though  you  may  have  to  be  satisfied  with  a  dictated 
family  letter." 

"  That's  better  than  silence." 

He  could  think  of  nothing  to  say,  he  the  much  her- 
alded talker!  Her  rather  heavy  voice  had  given  an 
intonation  to  the  sentence  which  seemed  to  hold  it  in  the 
air.  '«  That's  better  than  silence." 

It  sounds  like  the  ending  of  Hamlet,"  he  managed 


.. 


TOP-O'-THE-HILL  319 

to  be  gay.     " '  The  rest  is  silence,'  you  know.     Good- 

by,  child." 

"  Aufwiederhoren,  mein  guter  Kamarade." 

"  Aufwiederhoren  ?  "  he  repeated.     "You  shall  hear 

from  me  if  I  have  to  send  couriers !  " 


BOOK  FOUR 
Canaan 

"  Speak  when  you're  spoken  to ! "  the  Queen  sharply  interrupted 
her. 

"  But  if  everybody  -obeyed  that  rule,"  said  Alice  ..."  and  if 
you  only  spoke  when  you  were  spoken  to,  and  the  other  person 
always  waited  for  you  to  begin,  you  see  nobody  would  ever  say 
anything.  .  .  ." 


XXIII 

MY    LORD    AND    EKE    MY    MASTER 

BUT  Gorgas  did  not  hear  from  Allen  Blynn,  nor 
did  he  send  couriers.  For  nearly  a  week  he 
permitted  himself  to  be  led  about  by  Diccon  in 
the  role  of  a  "  candidate,"  growing  each  day  more  re- 
bellious, and  finally  he  had  decamped.  There  was  one 
important  luncheon  "  to  meet  Professor  Allen  Blynn  " 
which  had  to  get  along  without  its  chief  guest.  The 
professor  had  seized  his  grip  and  fled.  Rumor  had  it 
that  he  had  buried  himself  in  the  University  library, 
but  Gorgas  soon  discovered  that  he  had  been  seen  un- 
der his  own  shade  trees  with  his  young  pupils ;  and  there 
she  found  him. 

He  looked  older,  she  noted  as  she  peered  cautiously 
at  him  through  a  hedge.  And  what  was  that  on  the 
end  of  his  chin  which  waggled  as  he  talked?  Mercy! 
It  was  the  beginnings  of  a  beard !  That  tuft  was  cer- 
tainly the  sign  of  a  man  absorbed  in  his  affairs  or  wor- 
ried beyond  peradventure. 

For  some  time  she  watched  him  through  the  hedge  — 
"  Getting  used  to  the  chin-thing,"  she  told  him  later. 
Howard  Croft,  the  cripple  boy,  was  reading  aloud  from 

a  portentous  history  of  philosophy;  the  two  seemed  to 

323 


324  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

be  stopping  at  every  sentence  to  talk  it  out.     She  had 
rarely  seen  Allen  Blynn  so  terribly  in  earnest. 

When  she  finally  stepped  through  the  hedge  and  came 
up  to  the  studious  pair,  Allen  gave  her  a  nod,  as  much 
as  to  say,  "  Sit  down  and  pretend  to  be  busy  or  you'll 
frighten  this  shy  bird  off." 

For  an  hour  she  sketched  beards  of  all  nations,  from 
Belshazzarian  curls  to  the  latest  French  twist,  adroitly 
arranging  it  so  that  the  boy  could  not  see  her. 

"  You  like  to  make  folks  suffer,  Allen  Blynn,"  Gor- 
gas  scolded  gently  after  the  boy  had  gone.  "  How 
do  you  suppose  the  Leverings  have  stood  all  this  wait- 
ing for  you  to  come  over  and  tell  us  the  latest  ?  I 
just  couldn't  stand  it  any  longer.  If  I  don't  hear  all 
about  Holden  and  other  things  I'll  blow  up.  I'm  to 
take  you  back  with  me  for  dinner.  The  old  crowd  - 
some  of  them  —  are  to  drop  in.  Oh,  the  papers  have 
told  everything,  so  you  needn't  fear." 

And  all  the  time  her  mirthful  eyes  were  fastened  on 
his  chin. 

"  I  cannot  talk  about  it,"  his  lips  closed  firmly. 
"It  makes  me  ill  even  to  think  of  it.  That's  why  I 
have  been  working  on  the  youngsters  so  solidly.  It's 
the  only  antidote." 

She  broke  into  sudden  laughter.  "  It  waggles  when 
you  talk."  She  imitated  by  thrusting  her  own  chin 
up  and  down  grotesquely.  "  Why  —  oh,  why  did  you 
doit?" 

"  Oh !  "  he  came  out  of  his  perplexity.  "  My  Van 
Dyke?  A  barber  persuaded  me.  My  chin  is  all 


MY  LORD  AND  EKE  MY  MASTER      325 

bristles,  and  it  was  too  sensitive  for  shaving.  He  fixed 
it  this  way,  and  I  have  forgotten  to  remove  it." 

"  I  thought  maybe  it  was  penance  for  sins,"  she 
choked  back  her  laugher. 

"Don't  you  like  it?" 

"  Yes,"  she  steadied  herself.  "  I  like  —  anything 
that's  funny !  .  .  .  Wait.  ...  I  thought  I  was  used 
to  it,  but  I  see  it'll  take  some  time.  .  .  .  There!  I'll 
be  good  and  won't  laugh  at  the  big  man.  Come ! "  she 
tapped  him  cheerfully  on  the  arm.  "  Come  along  with 
me.  We've  wasted  loads  of  time  already.  .  .  .  And 
trust  that  crowd  for  making  you  forget.  When  they 
see  that  —  whisker !  oh !  "  she  held  her  handkerchief 
to  her  mouth.  "  You  are  too  funny,  Allen  Blynn ! 
They'll  want  you  to  talk  all  night  —  to  see  —  it  go  up 
and  down ! " 

As  they  walked  along  the  shaded  streets,  she  ceased 
joking  him,  except  for  an  occasional  mischievous  peer 
around  at  the  tufted  chin.  His  good  humor  was  equal 
to  hers ;  but  they  soon  settled  into  a  more  serious  chat. 

The  dinner  had  some  of  its  old-time  gayety  and  irre- 
sponsibility. Morris  and  Bea  Wilcox  were  at  the 
announcement  stage  and  therefore  open  to  persistent 
raillery.  Diccon  was  there  to  keep  the  topic  away  from 
Holden,  and  Betty  and  Mary  had  brought  their  young 
husbands.  Far  in  the  background,  seated  like  an  accus- 
tomed idol,  Leopold  smiled  wisely  over  the  whole. 

One  may  be  sure  that  Blynn's  beard  was  greeted 
with  excess  of  emotion.  Beards  were  a  rarity  then; 
they  were  restricted  by  tacit  law  to  dentists,  young 


326  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

physicians,  returning  European  tourists,  and  war  vet- 
erans. 

Almost  the  only  difference  between  these  dinner-par- 
ties and  the  others  of  five  years  ago  was  that  they 
broke  up  earlier.  There  were  trains  to  catch;  there 
was  the  next  day's  work;  and  in  some  cases  there  had 
begun  to  be  babies  to  go  back  to.  By  ten  o'clock  Allen 
Blynn  was  alone  with  the  Leverings. 

Everyone  had  avoided  the  topic  of  Holden  with  ob- 
vious premeditation.  Diccon  had  passed  the  word 
along  to  *'  drop  it,"  but  in  the  more  intimate  situation 
with  the  Leverings  questions  were  bound  to  arise. 

"  Diccon  will  have  to  do  without  me,"  Allen  spoke 
up  with  sudden  firmness.  "  I  am  a  candidate,  I  sup- 
pose; but  I  refuse  to  campaign." 

Diccon  had  managed  things  with  distressing  bril- 
liancy. Doubting  members  of  the  trustees  had  to  be 
dined  and  talked  into  reason.  And  they  had  to  be  paid. 

"  Paid  ?  "  Kate  and  Gorgas  asked  together.  Mrs. 
Levering  had  elected  to  keep  out  of  the  conversation; 
her  instinctive  interest  was  to  pilot  the  boat,  not  to 
take  part  in  the  ship's  concert. 

**  Yes,  paid,"  nodded  Blynn  grimly.  "  Paid  in 
blood." 

"  Oh,"  the  girls  gasped  in  relief.  Blood  was  per- 
mitted ;  money,  never. 

"Yes,"  he  explained;  "I  had  to  entertain,  tell 
sprightly  stories,  plunge  into  theories  of  education,  and 
act  all  the  while  with  sweeping  smile  and  glittering 
eye  —  and  voluble !  as  Tutivillus  himself.  And  not 


MY  LORD  AND  EKE  MY  MASTER      327 

just  to  one  person  or  to  one  group  of  persons,  mind 
you;  but  to  every  Tom,  Dick  and  Harry  whom  Diccon 
sicked  on  me.  If  they  had  come  in  battalions  I  could 
have  done  it,  but  they  came  in  single  file.  When  Dic- 
con finally  started  to  use  me,  we  had  dinners  every  night 
and  luncheons  every  day,  except  one  day,  when  we  had 
two  luncheons.  Diccon  said  there  was  no  other  way 
out  of  it." 

"  I  wouldn't  have  done  that  for  a  peck  of  presi- 
dents," said  Gorgas  firmly.  "  I'd  have  been  myself." 

"  Myself !  "  echoed  Allen.  "  Bless  my  soul !  Myself 
during  that  whole  trip  was  a  silent,  sullen,  nasty- 
tongued  person.  If  I  had  ever  let  myself  out  of  the 
box  he  would  have  first  lambasted  the  whole  crew  and 
then  sunk  back  into  a  silent  scowl.  You  know  how  it  is. 
Haven't  you  done  the  same  thing  when  you  were  the 
charming  hostess?"  Blynn  appealed  to  them. 

"  Oh,  yes,  indeed,"  everyone  chorused,  including  Mrs. 
Levering. 

"  There  are  times,"  Kate  remembered,  "  when  I  am 
strongly  tempted  to  have  fake  hysterics  in  the  middle  of 
the  dinner,  just  to  drive  them  home." 

"  Exactly ! "  he  nodded  firmly.  "  So  I  avoided  a 
scene  and  drove  myself  home."  And  therefore,  one  day 
he  did  not  "  meet  "  one  fussy  little  member. 

"  I  just  couldn't  stand  that  fellow,"  Blynn  grew 
rigid.  "  He  is  a  puffy-looking,  self-assertive  sort  of 
nobody.  Everybody  knows  that  he  was  appointed  on 
the  board  because  he  is  a  relative  of  a  man  who  has  a 
friend  who  was  able  to  influence  somebody  who  knew 


328  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

somebody  who  could  get  him  the  appointment  —  one  of 
those  absurd  selections  that  happen  every  now  and  then 
in  America,  due  to  the  hysteric  ambition  of  some  small 
person,  helped  out  by  the  easy-going  American  char- 
acter. Well,  this  Nobody  presumes  to  busy  himself 
with  the  affairs  of  Holden,  talks  about  it,  bothers 
everybody  as  if  he  really  had  judgment.  I  couldn't 
trust  myself  near  him.  If  he  had  got  off  any  of 
those  loud-mouthed  advices  of  his,  before  others,  too, 
I'd  have  shut  him  up  with  his  own  history.  So  I  con- 
cluded that  the  best  thing  I  could  do  for  Diccon  was 
to  vanish.  I  came  home  and  locked  myself  up  in  the 
University  library  and  hit  on  a  fine  trail  —  I  analyzed 
pretty  much  all  the  ways  in  which  the  Elizabethan 
courtier  complimented  his  lady.  There's  little  in  it  for 
subtle  minds,  but  it  will  make  a  splendid  popular  lec- 
ture." 

Then,  to  avoid  what  was  obviously  to  him  a  distress- 
ing remembrance,  he  dropped  Holden  and  its  affairs  and 
told  them  about  the  gallant  Elizabethan  gentlemen. 

"  I  wonder  what  the  Elizabethan  women  thought 
about  all  that  stuff,"  the  practical  Gorgas  summed  up. 

"  It  isn't  all  stuff,"  protested  the  professor. 

"  Didn't  the  ladies  ever  reply?  "  questioned  Kate. 

"  Not  a  word,"  said  Allen.  "  Their  silence  is  pro- 
found. Every  mother's  son  was  busy  writing  sonnets 
to  his  mistress'  eyebrow,  but  the  ladies  stood  pat.  The 
secret  of  high  diplomacy  is,  Never  divulge;  keep  'em 
guessing.  And  they  did !  " 

"  I  wish  they  had  written,"  Gorgas  was  thoughtful. 


MY  LORD  AND  EKE  MY  MASTER      329 

"  No  doubt  they  felt  things  as  keenly  as  the  men.  .  .  . 
All  the  men  wore  beards,  I  suppose?  "  she  continued  ir- 
relevantly. 

"  Undoubtedly,"  Blynn's  mind  was  rarely  personal. 
The  merry  face  of  Gorgas,  he  did  not  note  at  all ;  nor 
her  attempts,  with  hand  at  mouth,  to  hold  back  a  volume 
of  laughter ;  nor  Kate's  furtive,  elderly  signal  of  rebuke 
to  the  grinning  sister.  With  eye  mostly  upon  Kate, 
who  was  presenting  a  polite  face  of  assumed  interest, 
the  young  professor  poured  forth  a  dissertation  on 
Elizabethan  tonsorial  fashions.  He  was  summing  up 
his  conclusions  when  his  attention  was  attracted  by  a 
badly  suppressed  squeak  of  laughter  from  Gorgas. 
"  The  beard,"  he  was  saying,  "  was  the  sign  of  the 
gentleman,  and  the  sign  of  the  man.  Of  course  they  — 
what  are  you  grinning  at,  you  Cheshire  kitten?  Oh! 
see  here,  I'll  pluck  this  thing  off  tomorrow.  I  didn't 
mean  to  wear  it,  anyway.  It  was  forced  on  me  by  a 
villainous  barber." 

Everyone  protested  except  Gorgas. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  take  it  off,"  she  shook  her 
head.  "  I've  been  bubbling  with  shut-in  laughter  all 
evening.  I  like  fun,  but  this  —  is  —  carrying  things 
a  little  —  too  far."  She  pushed  her  laughter  back  with 
her  handkerchief.  "  I  don't  wonder  the  Elizabethan 
ladies  didn't  reply.  Poems  praising  men's  eyes  and 
noses  and  beards !  La !  la !  la!  la !  That  would  be  too 
funny ! " 

It  was  a  relief  to  get  away  from  Holden  and  its  small 
politics.  Elizabethan  lyrics  were  such  a  remove.  So 


330  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

he  left  them  in  a  cheerful  mood  and  promised  to  come 
back  soon,  with  his  notes,  and  let  them  have  his  amor- 
ous studies,  that  substitute  for  fussy  little  trustees. 

The  next  morning  his  mail  brought  him  an  unsigned 
communication  in  the  sprawling  hand  of  Gorgas  Lev- 
ering. Evidently  she  had  penned  it  after  he  had  gone 
the  night  before.  It  read : 

To  My  Lord  and  Eke  My  Master 

Thy  beard  is  waggling  in  my  thoughts,  I  find, 

Oh,  lord  and  master,  chosen  of  my  heart; 

Thy  loving  prattle  have  I  heard  but  part, 

The  waggling  beard  distracted  all  my  mind. 

And  those  gray  eyes  —  or  are  they  slightly  green?  — 

I  did  not  see,  nor  either  freckled  cheek, 

Nor  teeth,  nor  ear,  nor  bald  spot  on  the  peak: 

The  waggle,  waggle,  waggle  held  the  scene. 

I  like  thee,  master,  for  thy  forehead  seared 
By  crash  of  pewters  foaming  to  the  brink; 
I  like  thee,  master,  for  thy  fingers  pink 
That  never  once  hath  honest  labor  smeared; 
I  like  thee  for  thy  nose's  Roman  kink, 
But  Zooks !    I  love  that  waggle,  waggle  beard. 

To  which  was  added, 
P.S.    But  I  don't.    I  hate  it 


XXIV 

THE    HOLD-TIP 

ALLEN  BLYNN'S  smile  at  breakfast  that  morn- 
ing   was    quite    Pestalozzian.     The    mother 
looked  across  at  him  with  much  the  same  sera- 
phic glow,  simply  reflected. 

"  Just  listen  to  this  from  Gorgas,  mother.  It's  a 
perfect  little  bit  of  satire.  Oh,  this  is  rich !  "  He  read 
with  outright  joy. 

"  I  like  thee,  master,  for  thy  fingers  pink 
That  never  once  hath  honest  labor  smeared ; 
I  like  thee  for  thy  nose's  Roman  kink, 
But  Zooks !    I  love  that  waggle,  waggle  beard ! " 

The  mother  was  keen  enough  to  see  the  cleverness 
and  as  well  the  poet's  criticism  of  her  son's  tuft  of 
beard. 

"  It  is  rather  rough,  my  dear,"  she  looked  over  mildly. 

"Do  you  think  so?"  he  was  surprised.  "That's 
remarkably  smooth  verse,  mother.  It  just  flows 
straight  to  the  point.  And  the  sonnet  structure !  It's 
perfect.  I  don't  think  it  a  bit  rough,  mother." 

"  I  was  not  considering  the  verse,  my  dear,"  she  man- 
aged to  say.  "  Motherlike,  I  was  thinking  only  of  my 
son's  ornamented  chin.  It  is  rather  rough  and  bristly 

331 


332  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

—  the  chin,  not  the  sonnet.  And  it  does  —  uh  — 
waggle  when  you  talk,  my  dear." 

"  It  goes  today,  mother,"  he  eyed  the  postscript  care- 
fully. "  I've  pledged  my  word."  But  his  mind  went 
out  to  the  little  girl  who  was  ever  tossing  odd  rhymes 
at  him.  "  I  didn't  suspect  she  could  put  anything  into 
such  shape  as  this.  We've  been  reading  a  lot  of  verse 
together ;  it  has  counted ;  no  doubt,  it  has  counted." 
The  Pestalozzian  smile  of  triumph  was  still  on  his  face. 

"  What  wonders  you  have  done  with  Gorgas,"  the 
mother  shared  his  pride. 

That  brought  him  down  like  a  shot. 

"  Nonsense !  "  he  exploded.  "  She's  the  only  one  of 
all  my  children  who  has  baffled  me.  Everything  she  has 
is  her  own.  I  try  to  teach  her  one  thing,  she  comes 
forth  with  something  different  and  unexpected  —  like 
this,"  flourishing  the  sonnet.  "  She  picks  her  own  way 
about.  Some  children  will  bloom  in  spite  of  teachers ; 
but  we  teachers  have  a  habit  of  taking  credit  for  all  our 
smart  ones.  Did  you  ever  try  to  stop  a  dandelion  from 
thriving?  " 

Another  letter  of  his  small  packet  was  not  so  con- 
soling. 

"  Schmuhl  is  in  town !  "  he  ejaculated.  "  Diccon  says 
I  must  have  luncheon  with  him  at  the  Union  League." 

"  And  pray,  who  is  Schmuhl?  " 

"  A  trustee  and  a  big  wig,"  he  explained,  but  with- 
out enthusiasm.  "  He's  a  corporation  lawyer ;  never 
seems  to  work ;  but  he  does  work,  like  a  rat,  in  the  dark. 
He's  the  '  legislative  man  '  at  Holden.  He  can  do  any- 


THE  HOLD-UP 

thing  with  law-makers.  He  seems  thoroughly  gentle 
and  harmless.  But  ...  I  will  not  meet  him." 

"  Why,  my  dear?  "  the  mother  asked. 

"  I  shall  resign  from  Holden  College  and  demand  that 
my  name  shall  not  be  considered  for  the  presidency,"  he 
went  on  sternly. 

"  If  it  worries  you,  my  dear,"  the  mother  spoke  com- 
placently; she  had  enormous  confidence  that  anything 
her  boy  should  decide  to  do  would  be  therefore  exactly 
right. 

"  Without  an  atom  of  proof  I  sense  this  Schmuhl. 
He  makes  laws  —  how,  I  do  not  know,  but  I  strongly 
suspect  the  method.  Laws  are  essential  to  colleges  that 
depend  partly  on  state  appropriations.  Therefore  I 
would  need  Schmuhl.  And  I  decline  to  need  him!  It 
would  be  a  continuous  '  hold-up  ' ;  and  I  decline  to  be 
'  held  up '  by  the  Schmuhls  of  this  world.  They  call 
him  respectable;  I  call  him  infamous,  and  I  refuse  to 
link  my  life  with  his !  " 

Almost  abruptly  he  left  for  his  writing  desk.  In  a 
short  while  he  was  trudging  down  the  street  with 
letters  in  his  hand.  He  strode  forward  indignantly, 
and  he  dropped  the  letters  in  the  corner  mail  box  with 
something  of  the  thrust  of  a  righteous  man  spurning 
evil.  "  Top-o'-the  Hill  "  began  to  loom  up  as  a  blessed 
certainty. 

He  strode  into  a  barbershop  and  had  the  offending 
beard  removed;  and  still  striding,  he  went  on  to  the 
Leverings.  On  the  lawn  he  met  Bardek,  Kate,  and 
Gorgas ;  they  had  not  ceased  discussing  the  fortunes  of 


334  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Allen.  "  I  have  resigned  from  Holden ;  I  will  not  be 
a  candidate,"  he  announced  bluntly.  Briefly  he 
sketched  his  reasons. 

Gorgas  and  Kate  received  the  news  with  amazement. 
Already  they  had  begun  to  feel  some  of  the  pride  of 
their  friend's  success.  As  Bardek  had  hinted,  the 
"  little  place  "  was  being  called  a  big  name  by  the  world ; 
some  of  the  world's  valuation  was  slowly  changing  their 
own.  It  would  seem  almost  like  a  defeat  to  back  out 
now.  They  even  forgot  to  notice  the  absence  of  the 
beard. 

"  It  would  mean  machination  and  continual  intrigue," 
Blynn  shook  his  head  firmly.  "  And  I'm  not  the  man 
for  that.  Good  old  Gait.  Somehow  I  begin  to  see  his 
side  of  the  thing.  A  fine,  old  sport  he  was,  too ;  he 
never  '  peached.'  No  matter  how  hard  they  ran  him  he 
never  whimpered.  I  wonder  what  he  thought  of  me  — 
a  tricky  politician,  I  guess,  shouting  for  '  the  youth  of 
America  '  and  secretly  pulling  wires  for  the  presidency. 
Ugh!  What  a  job!" 

"  My  dear  good  friend,"  Bardek  interposed.  "  This 
President  Gait,  I  know  him ;  he  is  good  sport,  yes ;  and 
he  twist  about  and  turn  and  you  cannot  catch  him  — 
yes ;  I  know  him.  But  also !  He  know  you.  That  is 
the  business  of  wise  old  Gaits  to  know  peoples.  Oh,  he 
know  you.  From  the  day  he  first  see  you  he  know  you. 
Your  face,  it  is  all  on  the  outside  — " 

"  Gracious !  I  hope  so,"  he  stroked  his  face  thought- 
fully. 

"  Yes,"   Bardek    continued.     "  You   will   always   be 


THE  HOLD-UP  335 

that  way.  You  let  your  thinkings  grow  right  up,  so 
they  show  in  your  eyes  and  around  the  corners  of  your 
mouth.  You  would  never  make  little  diplomat  — 
great  statesman?  Yes?  Perhaps;  for  you  would  fool 
all  the  little  liars  and  gamblers  —  they  would  look  on 
your  face  and  see  what  is  to  them  an  unknown  t'ing,  the 
truth.  It  is  vairy  confusing  to  little  statesmen  —  the 
truth,  m'sieu'.  When  the  big  Bismarck  was  in  corner 
he  quick  tell  the  truth  so's  nobody  would  believe  and  all 
go  the  wrong  way.  Sometime,  I,  too,  have  tol'  tj 
truth." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so !  "  laughed  Blynn.  "  But  we're  all 
forgetting  the  main  business  in  hand.  Top-o'-the-Hill 
is  emerging  out  of  dreamland  into  reality.  Come,  Miss 
Manager,  let's  discuss  plans.  Holden  will  find  my 
resignation  in  to-morrow's  mail." 

The  plans  were  even  better  matured  than  Blynn  had 
hoped  for.  Kate  had  kept  at  work  — "  To  keep  my 
mind  off  Petruchio  " —  she  had  told  him.  Mac  had  al- 
ready cleaned  paths  and  had  made  a  rough  estimate 
of  the  building  needs.  There  was  much  to  be  done 
there ;  but  with  some  outside  hired  help,  and  everybody 
joining  in,  September  should  see  a  school-house  pre- 
pared for  those  parents  who  had  courage  to  trust  their 
children  to  the  experimenters.  Blynn's  work  was  al- 
ready mapped  out  on  a  card.  First  was  the  writing 
of  the  "  prospectus."  He  could  do  that  "  trick  "  with 
the  proper  sense  and  style.  It  wasn't  to  be  a  peda- 
gogical document,  but  a  thriller  to  win  parents  over. 

Blynn  agreed,  but  insisted  upon  one  further  condi- 


336  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

tion.  The  property  must  be  assessed  at  a  marketable 
figure  and  a  proper  rental  paid. 

"  Trust  your  manager,"  advised  Kate.  "  I  don't 
intend  to  give  anything  away.  A  stock-company  is  to 
be  formed,  which  will  buy  the  land  and  house.  I  will 
take  51  per  cent,  of  the  shares  as  security  and  to  control 
you  reckless  ones.  The  stock-company  pays  taxes  and 
improvements;  but  I  insist  upon  the  wild  rose  and  all 
the  literary  ceremonies." 

"Eight!"  agreed  Allen.  "The  first  wild  rose  of 
spring  shall  be  yours ;  but  this  is  something  more  than 
poetry;  it  is  almost  my  only  means  of  livelihood.  I 
should  be  needlessly  worried  if  I  felt  for  a  single  min- 
ute that  the  thing  did  not  pay  for  itself  entirely.  I 
cannot  live  on  your  property,  Kate." 

"  Now,  that  is  vairy  strange,"  Bardek  commented 
when  the  matter  had  been  made  clear  to  him.  "  You 
cannot  take  the  ol'  house  and  little  earth." — He  said 
something  like  "  leetle  airt,"  but  it  was  perfectly  clear 
as  he  spoke  it. — "  Oh,  no !  You  would  have  such  shame ! 
But  you  would  take  it  quick  if  I  be  fool  and  sell  it  cheap ! 
You  cannot  take  money !  But  you  take  rent  from  poor 
peoples  who  cannot  pay!  And  you  not  take  my  ol', 
good  coat  which  is  now  too  little  for  me !  Ach !  you 
would  be  beggar!  But  you  take  present  from  me  of 
my  best  workmanship  which  give  me  much  labor  and  a 
big  pain  in  t'  back!  And  you  take  my  dinner  at  my 
table  wit'  no  shame  at  all ;  and  my  laughter  and  all  my 
good  talk  and  my  friendliness,  which  take  all  my  life  to 
make  and  cost  me  —  everyt'ing !  It  is  strange !  As 


THE  HOLD-UP  337 

for  me  —  poof !  —  I  have  not  the  shame.  When  you 
give  and  I  want,  I  jus'  take  and  forget,  like  wind  and 
rain." 

For  the  next  few  days  they  toiled  like  slaves  on  the 
"  property."  They  dug,  planted,  cut  weeds,  sawed  and 
even  plastered.  Bardek  secured  the  help  of  one  or  two 
Italians  to  do  the  heavy  hauling.  "  Work  is  good,"  he 
argued,  "  it  is  the  only  medicine ;  but  a  broken  back,  it 
is  not  good.  The  little  men  of  Italy?  Ah!  They  are 
built  so.  See  how  they  laugh !  I  talk  to  them  of  Gari- 
baldi and  zoop  !  they  carry  like  demons." 

As  they  trudged  home  one  weary  afternoon,  full  of 
exultant  hopes,  a  newspaper  fell  into  their  hands. 
Blynn's  picture  had  caught  Kate's  quick  eye.  "  Blynn, 
Holden's  Chief,"  ran  the  head-lines.  It  told  of  a  spe- 
cial meeting  of  the  board  of  trustees,  and  reviewed 
Blynn's  history  with  the  accuracy  of  a  fond  parent. 
The  vote  was  7  to  2. 

"  Never  you  mind,"  Blynn  grew  rigid  as  he  turned 
to  his  friends.  "  That  won't  go !  I  told  Diccon  to 
withdraw  my  name ;  I  see  he  didn't.  It's  all  right, 
Kate.  I'll  get  out  of  this  somehow.  I've  been  to  the 
top  of  Pisgah;  there'll  be  no  turning  back  until  we 
reach  the  Promised  Land." 

"  Not  when  I  have  worked  like  a  coal  miner,"  im- 
plored Bardek.  "  Who  would  give  me  my  ol'  back 
back?  —  Oof!  wass  fur  eine  Sprache!  What  a  lan- 
guage !  —  give  a  back  back !  Ho !  " 

"  That's  good  business,"  Kate  nodded  her  head,  satis- 
fied. "  I'm  glad  they  elected  you.  It  will  boom  Top- 


388  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

o'-the-Hill  immensely.  I'll  have  it  easy  financing  this 
job.  The  trouble  will  be  to  keep  the  money  from 
swamping  us." 

"  *  The  President  of  Holden  College  resigns  to  be- 
come a  kindergartner,'  "  exclaimed  Gorgas.  "  Allen 
Blynn,  that's  too  funny.  It's  almost  as  funny  as  the 
waggle-waggle  beard ! " 

"  You  minx !  "  he  shook  a  finger  at  her.  "  Are  you 
cogitating  another  sonnet  ?  " 

"  I  may  get  on  my  poet-bonnet !  "  she  smiled  at  him. 


XXV 

DAGO 

For-ty  year  on  when  a-f  ar  and  a-sunder. 

AT  the  suggestion  of  Gorgas,  Leopold  became  a 
member  of  the  staff  of  "Top-o'-the-Hill." 
Of  all  the  old  group  that  used  to  make  rendez- 
vous of  the  Levering  house,  Leopold  and  Blynn  were  the 
only  two  who  kept  up  the  relationship;  but  both  men 
were  rather  intermittent  visitors.  Leopold  —  everyone 
said  "  Leopold,"  possibly  because  of  the  impossible  sur- 
name, Hayim  —  called  punctiliously  upon  Mrs.  Lever- 
ing, although  Mrs.  Levering  saw  little  of  him.  Gorgas 
and  he  spent  the  time  exercising  their  French.  He  was 
a  silent,  grave  man,  with  a  far-off  friendly  smile;  and, 
once  enticed,  he  could  talk  out  of  a  rare  life.  On  fes- 
tival occasions  he  could  always  be  counted  upon  for  a 
plaintive  song. 

"  Leopold  will  do  the  science,  you  know,"  Gorgas  ex- 
plained. "  I  have  talked  it  over  with  him.  You  should 
have  seen  his  fine  eyes  sparkle!  He's  got  heaps  of 
money,  you  know ;  we'll  make  him  treasurer.  Besides, 
he's  English.  That  will  give  such  a  tone ! " 

339 


340  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

What  a  varied  group  it  was !  At  night  they  drew 
up  the  staff  as  it  would  be  printed  in  the  "  prospectus." 
The  list  of  names  and  qualifications  was  almost  formid- 
able when  one  considered  how  informal  and  unregulated 
all  their  teaching  hoped  to  be;  and  in  that  list  they 
stumbled  over  the  name  of  Bardek.  He  would  never 
admit  any  other  names.  "  Jus'  Bardek,"  he  would  say. 
"  Why  have  more  than  one  name?  Even  one  is  hard 
to  remember."  Here  is  the  first  faculty  of  "  Top-o'- 
the-Hill,"  that  prototype  of  the  "  new  schools  "  which 
were  soon  to  spring  up  all  over  America : 

IN  CHARGE: 

Ma.  AI/LEN  BLYNN 
Holden  and  Jena 

Miss  KEYSER  LEVERING 
The  Warren  School 

ASSOCIATES  : 

MR.  HAYIM  LEOPOLD 
Harrow  and  Cambridge 

MR.  BARDEK 
Naples  and  Bordeaux 

Miss  GORGAS  LEVERING 
School  of  Applied  Arts 

"  It  sounds  so  learned,"  Allen  looked  on  ruefully. 
"  We  oughtn't  to  print  it." 

"  It  ought  to  sound  learned,"  said  Kate. 

"  But  we  are  to  deal  with  young  life,  not  learning," 
he  reminded  her. 

"  We'll  do  all  of  that,"  she  assured  him.     "  This  list 


DAGO 

of  names  is  just  advertising.  No  one  will  question  us 
after  they  see  all  our  vast  qualifications ;  they  won't  even 
inquire  if  we  have  them.  This,"  tapping  the  sheet, 
"  will  bring  us  more  paying  pupils  than  any  other  page 
in  the  pamphlet.  I  know  these  people.  *  Jena,' 
*  Bordeaux,'  '  Harrow,'  *  Cambridge  ' —  why,  that's  as 
good  as  paying  dividends  already.  You  watch." 

"  When  you  go  fishing,  my  friend,"  Bardek's  eyes 
twinkled,  "  it  would  be  big  fool  if  you  not  put  on  the 
dying  worm  or  the  already  dead  insect.  Of  course" 
spreading  his  hands,  "  you  might  say  to  the  fish, '  Come, 
jump  on  my  hook;  it  won't  hurt  you  any  worse  jus' 
because  the  dead  insect  is  not  there.  Come ;  quick ;  get 
it  over.'  Ah !  no  !  The  fish  are  too  wise. 

"  Titles  and  degrees  and  all  that,"  Bardek  went  on, 
"  they  are  vairy  great  power.  We  see  little  men  wit' 
big  decorations,  and  we  come  to  them  and  ask  questions, 
and  prod  them  with  the  stick  of  our  minds,  and  we  turn 
them  round  and  round  and  open  their  mouths  and  look 
down  their  throats.  How  we  tremble !  At  any  minute 
dese  great  man  may  say  some  wise  thing!  And  you 
stay  and  stay  for  hundert  t'ousand  years  and  he  say, 
nothing  —  nothing  that  you  don't  know  when  you  were 
small  boy.  *  It  look  like  rain,'  maybe  he  say  after  two, 
free  thousand  years.  But  the  world!  Ah!  It  walks 
in  a  great  wide  circle  and  will  not  come  near  the  great 
man.  Mystery!  Mystery!  They  are  afraid  of  his 
wisdom.  It  will  strike  them  dead,  like  lightning.  So 
they  send  their  children  to  him. 

"  And  the  children !     First  they  are  afraid  —  they 


342  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

believe  then  all  the  papa  and  mamma  has  toP  dem. 
Then  they  find  he  don't  know  what  happened  in  the 
world  day  before  it  was  yesterday.  And  soon  they 
laugh.  Then  he  grow  red  in  face  and  scold;  and  then 
because  they  have  pains  of  laughter  they  stop.  And 
all  their  days  they  meet  oP  school  friend  and  they  sit 
and  drink  and  eat  and  laugh  at  that  oP  fool  who  did  not 
know  what  happens  the  day  before  it  was  yesterday. 

"  And  t'en  t'ey  send  dere  children  to  him  and  make 
beeg  stories  how  great  is  that  man ! 

"  Oh,  put  the  dead  insect  on  the  hook,  my  friend ;  or 
there  will  be  no  little  pupils  and  we  will  be  so  hungry 
to  teach  t'at  we  fall  on  each  other  and  teach." 

It  was  precisely  as  Kate  had  predicted.  She  seemed 
to  know  exactly  where  to  drop  her  printed  bait.  By 
August  she  had  closed  the  doors  and  had  engineered  a 
waiting  list,  for  they  were  resolved  the  first  year  to  be- 
gin with  small  numbers. 

"  We'll  pay  you  your  wages  and  have  something  be- 
sides for  improvements,"  she  announced  to  Blynn. 

Of  all  that  enthusiastic  lot  of  teachers  he  was  the 
only  one  who  could  not  afford  to  give  his  time  without 
salary.  It  hurt  him  to  take  that  money,  but  his  good 
sense  showed  him  that  there  was  no  other  way  out.  It 
was  shame  of  the  sort  that  Bardek  thought  so  strange, 
and  it  must  be  downed.  He  reflected  with  some  grim- 
ness  that  while  the  others  were  giving  energy,  joy,  and 
enthusiasm  to  the  work,  he  was  offering  all  that  and 
something  much  harder  to  give,  his  pride  as  an  inde- 
pendent man. 


"Top-o'-the-HiU' 


DAGO  343 

To  no  one  he  spoke  of  this.  In  spite  of  his  innocence 
and  in  spite  of  the  face  which,  as  Bardek  claimed,  he 
wore  for  the  most  part  "  on  the  outside,"  Blynn  could 
mask  a  hundred  worries  back  of  his  Pestalozzian  smile. 
Yet  Gorgas  knew.  She  had  pieced  together  his  jests 
and  his  half-uttered  opinions. 

They  had  worked  all  day  together  on  a  baseball  dia- 
mond and  were  celebrating  the  conclusion  by  a  picnic 
supper  on  the  grounds  of  "  Top-o'-the-Hill." 

"  Mein  guter  Kamarade,"  she  whispered,  "  you 
mustn't  feel  bad  about  that  fool  salary." 

"  Oh,  I  don't,"  he  smiled. 

"  Yes,  you  do,"  she  nodded  wisely.  "  I'm  onto  your 
curves,  old  chap.  I'll  just  have  to  talk  to  you  like  a 
Dutch  uncle.  I've  a  scheme,  too ;  better  than  anything 
Kate  gets  off.  Now  —  mustn't  it  be  grand  ?  " 

"  Phew !  "  he  aff ected  seriousness.  "  It  must  be  a 
corker.  Let's  hear  it." 

"  Here  ?  Wouldn't  that  be  funny,"  she  asked  herself 
aloud.  "Wouldn't  that  be  too  funny!"  The  idea 
amused  her.  "  Oh,  no,  mon  capitaine,  not  here  before 
all  these  folks.  It's  —  it's  private.  Yes,"  she  mused, 
"  it's  quite  private.  .  .  .  You  must  let  me  have  an  in- 
terview. I've  been  trying  to  have  one  with  you  ever 
since  June." 

*'  Why,  my  dear  child !  "  he  was  surprised.  "  We've 
been  together  nearly  every  blessed  day,  taken  walks  to- 
gether and  all  that !  " 

"Yes,  I  know,"  she  said.  "I've  tried  to  say  it  — 
and  couldn't.  But  I'm  going  to  dive  in  soon.  That's 


344  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

what  I  came  to  your  house  for,  in  June ;  you  remember 
wnen  you  were  teaching  the  Croft  boy?  If  he  hadn't 
been  there  I'd  have  done  it  then.  Hush ! "  she  raised 
a  finger.  "  They're  coming  back.  Not  a  word.  .  .  . 
It's  partly  about  him."  She  nudged  toward  Leopold. 

That  was  an  exasperating  way  to  end  a  conversation, 
characteristic  of  Gorgas  —  just  like  an  exciting  con- 
tinuous story.  "  It's  partly  about  him."  About  Leo- 
pold? 

Leopold  had  never  ceased  his  subtle  interest  in  Gorgas 
since  the  night  of  their  first  conversation  in  French. 
He  was  both  French  and  English,  and,  back  of  that,  the 
Oriental.  He  seemed  ever  ready  to  do  two  contradic- 
tory things ;  to  leap  into  the  breach  and  seize  the  enemy 
by  the  throat,  or  to  stand,  courageous  as  the  day,  and 
undisturbed  take  every  shock.  One  of  these  —  the 
French  or  the  English  —  might  have  won  out  and  given 
him  a  positive  emotional  character,  but  the  persistent 
Hebrew,  trained  to  keep  emotions  in  check,  to  pass  them 
in  review  before  hard,  good  sense,  held  the  two  con- 
trary horses  together  and  dominated  from  the  driver's 
seat.  One  needs  a  mixed  metaphor  to  describe  Leopold. 

There  was  much  more  to  Leopold  than  that  —  what 
forked,  straddling  biped  can  be  summed  up  in  a  phrase? 
—  he  had  the  smile  of  compassion  and  the  hovering 
sadness  of  those  who  have  looked  upon  the  world  from 
afar  off,  who  have  travelled  sympathetically  among 
peoples  and  have  seen  the  splendid  futility  of  the  life 
effort. 

It  was  generally  believed  that  Leopold  was  rich.     He 


DAGO  345 

admitted  a  competence,  but  his  life  was  simple.  Ah! 
Blynn  had  a  swift  thought  of  comprehension.  Leopold 
was  to  furnish  the  salary!  That  was  it.  Wise  little 
Gorgas  had  thought  to  dissipate  a  man's  pride  in  being 
self-supporting  by  shifting  the  source  of  income  from 
a  stock-company  to  a  person!  Women  will  never  un- 
derstand that  side  of  man,  he  mused;  the  fierce  hatred 
of  leaning  upon  another.  In  illness  women  are  meek 
and  saintly;  when  men  become  sick  and  incapacitated 
they  grow  unbearable,  their  maimed  spirits  cry  out 
against  the  very  charity  that  would  make  them  whole. 
Women  live  in  dependence  without  shame.  They  take 
furs  and  carriages  and  spending  money  from  their 
fathers.  Even  a  boy  of  sixteen  begins  to  rebel.  He 
cannot  take  things,  even  from  fathers ;  he  must  earn. 

Over  the  sprightly  little  fire  Blynn  told  them  of  Die- 
con. 

"  You  know  how  mean  I  felt  because  I  had  to  leave 
him  in  the  lurch,"  he  said.  "Well!  Diccon  was  just 
fine  about  it.  He  said  he  suspected  that  turn  of  affairs 
all  along  and  had  prepared  for  it. 

"  What  a  loyal  chap  that  Diccon  is !  He  said  his 
only  interest  was  in  having  the  post  officially  tendered 
me;  he  really  didn't  care  what  I  did  with  it.  He  said 
just  what  you  remarked  the  other  day,  that  the  election 
would  make  my  name  valuable  anywhere  else  I  went. 
I  told  him  about  «  Top-o'-the-Hill.'  He  said,  «  Bully ! 
It'll  be  a  great  go.  Put  me  on  the  trustees,  will  you?  '  " 

"  Let's !  "  suggested  Gorgas.  "  I  like  Diccon.  He's 
got  sense.  We  haven't." 


346  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  What !  "  they  shouted. 

"  We're  dreaming,"  she  nodded  wisely.  "  We  need 
his  kind  to  prevent  us  soaring  right  up  in  the  air  like 
a  balloon  and  — " 

"  And  go  bust,  eh?  "  continued  Bardek. 

"  Just  that,"  said  Gorgas.  "  We  need  ballast 
badly." 

They  could  hardly  eat,  these  dreamers,  until  the  new 
idea  had  been  incorporated.  A  board  of  advisers  was 
drawn  up  to  give  ballast:  it  included  Diccon,  and  the 
rector  of  Grace  Church,  the  butter-and-egg  man,  others 
of  the  tennis  court  group,  and  three  influential 
"  mothers." 

"  We'll  get  out  a  second  edition  of  the  prospectus," 
Kate  smiled  her  satisfaction.  "  That  front  page  will 
look  slick!  We'll  charge  'em  two  hundred  next  year." 

Bardek  brought  the  Italian  laborers  to  the  picnic 
supper.  They  demurred  mightily  at  first,  but  Gorgas 
won  them  by  a  neat  speech  of  invitation  in  Italian. 
How  their  eyes  glistened,  not  for  the  good  things  to 
eat,  although  that  must  have  touched  them,  but  for 
the  sound  of  that  rich  Italian  speech. 

"  They  are  so  hungry  for  words,"  laughed  Bardek ; 
"  the  sound  of  your  own  language  in  a  strange  land  — 
ah!  that  is  sweet.  One  day  I  pass  an  ol'  woman  wit' 
bundle  of  sticks  and  she  say,  *  Dam  t'ose  t'ings ;  t'ey 
won't  stay  on  my  ol'  head ' ;  but  she  say  it  in  Czech,  the 
clicking-clacking  Czech  which  my  mother  spoke  to  me." 
He  burst  into  a  strange  rattle  of  exclamations.  "  That 
is  the  sweet  Czech,  my  friends.  It  sounds  not  so  sweet 


DAGO  347 

to  you,  eh?  No?  Your  ear  it  is  not  right.  Suppose 
you  was  in  the  middle  of  China  and  could  never  go  to 
your  home  and,  quick,  you  hear  little  children  wit'  high 
American  voice  sing  in  the  evening, 

'  Here  we  go  'round  the  mulberry  bush, 
Mulberry  bush,  mulberry  bush, 
Here  we  go  'round  the  mulberry  bush, 
So  early  in  the  morning.' 

"  Ach!     Gott,  would  you  not  cry? 

"  I  did  cry  and  hug  that  ol'  woman  and  tell  her  in 
her  own  Czech  that  I  be  long-gone  son.  And  she  be- 
lieve me !  I  make  her  say,  '  Dam  t'ose  sticks,'  five,  ten 
times  and  give  her  silver  dollar  for  each  time  she  speak. 
Ach!  if  she  do  not  go  mad  after  that!  Somewhere  in 
America  is  a  crazy  woman,  all  her  life-time  singing  and 
shouting,  *  Dam  t'ose  sticks ! ' : 

"  We've  caught  you  at  last,  Bardek,"  Gorgas  cried. 
"  You  are  Czech !  That's  what  you  are !  " 

"  Oh,  no ! "  he  protested.  "  I  am  cosmopolitan. 
My  mother,  she  was  Czech  when  I  was  boy ;  but  before 
t'at  she  was  many  t'ings ;  and  after,  many  t'ings.  I  am 
cosmopolitan,"  he  claimed  again.  To  Leopold  and  to 
Gorgas  he  spoke  in  French,  to  Blynn  he  made  his  re- 
marks in  German,  and  to  the  Italians  he  talked  in  their 
own  tongue.  The  very  timbre  and  rhythm  of  his  voice 
changed  with  each  language;  he  had  the  music  of  each 
in  his  head. 

"  Ask  Caproni,  here,"  he  boasted,  "  if  I  am  not 
Italian." 


348  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Gorgas  inquired  in  their  language. 

"  Him  ?  "  their  eyes  opened  in  surprise  at  the  ques- 
tion. "  Oh,  but,  yes,  milady.  He  is  grand  signer, 
Italian  gentleman.  He  has  lived  in  Milan,  Napoli, 
everywhere,  even  in  our  own  Sicily.  Italian?  Oh,  but 
yes.  French?  You  would  make  fun,  milady?  He 
speak  French  as  we  in  Sicily  speak  French ;  ah !  he  talk 
Italian  from  the  heart." 

While  Gorgas  translated,  Bardek  sat  transfigured. 

"  You  see !  "  he  shook  his  great,  round  head  in  pride. 

'*  And  I  would  take  oath  you  are  French,"  Leopold 
remarked  quietly.  "  You  have  tones  and  nuances  of  the 
Loire—" 

"  Oh,  yes,  I  have  lived  on  the  Loire,"  he  admitted, 
"  and  also  in  Brittany."  For  example,  he  shifted  back 
and  forth  between  the  patois  of  the  north  and  south  of 
France. 

"  I  say  again  that  I  am  cosmopolitan,"  he  averred. 
"  The  Bohemian  belongs  to  all  countries.  In  New  York 
city  is  a  Bohemia  which  New  York  city  does  not  know. 
There  we  talk  all  languages  and  listen  to  the  pulses 
of  the  world.  New  York  is  a  little  place,  full  of  the 
small  thinkings  of  little  places.  It  has  great  pride 
and  wonderful  industry  —  just  like  little  places  —  but 
of  the  doings  of  the  great  world,  it  knows  everything 
too  late.  Long  before  the  big  wars  the  Bohemia  of 
New  York  city  knows  what  is  to  be,  and  prepares ;  one 
day  New  York  city  wake  up  and  scream  the  stale  news. 
So  wit'  everyt'ing. 


DAGO  349 

"  But  I  should  not  so  talk,"  he  shook  his  head  sadly. 
"  I  am  no  longer  cosmopolitan." 

They  tried  for  some  time  to  get  him  to  tell  them  why. 
At  first  he  would  not  speak.  Sadness  enveloped  him. 
After  a  while  he  laughed. 

"  I  am  not  sorry ;  it  is  good,"  he  said,  with  charac- 
teristic optimism.  "  In  America  one  cannot  be  cosmo- 
politan, I  see.  America  is  too  strong,  it  sucks  t'  blood 
out.  In  Europe  I  could  change  my  skin  and  still  be  — 
deep  —  myself,  Bardek,  Citizen  of  No  Place.  Always 
I  could  be  French  and  still  look  on  like  foreign;  or 
German  or  Dutch  or  Spanish  or  Polish  or  Italian  or 
anyt'ing.  Jus'  so  I  be  in  America  for  long  time.  Zen 
somet'ing  happen  to  me.  I  eat  poison  grass,  or  some- 
t'ing.  My  skin,  it  does  not  change ;  it  gets  tough. 

"  Sometimes  when  I  talk  French  or  Italian  to  my 
boys  or  to  Miss  Gorgas,  I  must  stop  and  t'ink  for  the 
word.  Me,  Bardek,  stop  to  think!  It  is  terrible,  my 
friend,  to  have  big  things  bubbling  inside  and  no  word 
at  the  mout' !  And  always  the  English  word,  it  come. 
And  such  English !  Ach !  My  boys,  dey  laugh  and 
make  fun  —  when  they  t'ink  I  do  not  look  —  and  they 
say,  *  Dago.'  Oof !  Sometimes  I  beat  t'em  in  six 
languages  ;  but,  sometimes,  too,  I  laugh.  .  .  .  '  Dago ! ' 
It  is  so." 

A  chorus  of  protests  told  him  how  well  he  spoke 
English. 

Leopold  scolded  him  for  his  desponding.  "  It  is 
thinking  that  counts,  my  dear  Bardek,"  he  said,  "  not 


350  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

words.  Greek  is  a  wonderful  language,  but  without 
Plato  or  Homer  and  Aesculus  or  Sophocles  and  Aris- 
tophanes, it  would  be  a  dead  instrument.  You  think, 
my  dear  Bardek.  If  you  spoke  in  Pennsylvania-Dutch 
you  would  be  worth  listening  to." 

"  And  your  English  is  better  than  English,"  spoke  up 
the  loyal  Gorgas.  "  It  is  softer  and  lovelier  and  beau- 
tifully strange." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  smiled.  "  I  like  you  to  say  zat. 
A  good  lie,  you  owe  it  to  a  friend,  to  make  him  happy. 
What!  You  laugh?  But  it  is  not  sin  to  lie.  You 
do  not  read  your  Bible,  my  friend.  To  kill?  steal?  yes. 
To  bear  false  witness?  yes.  But  the  good  Moses  was 
too  wise  to  say,  '  Thou  shalt  not  lie .'  .  .  .  Yet  I  am 
*  Dago,'  jus'  like  dese  Italian  ol'  men. 

"  Oh,  I  know ;  it  is  right,"  he  continued.  "  The  Ital- 
ian, oh,  he  will  come  to  America  and  he  say,  *  I  will 
live  ^ike  pig  and  make  much  money  and  go  back  to  my 
country  and  live  like  prince.  Yah !  He  stay  wit'  his 
own  people  and  talk,  talk,  talk  his  own  speech.  He 
laugh  at  funny  Americans.  Yah !  Soon  he  must  hide 
his  fine  clothes  of  colors  and  put  on  grease-pants  and 
ol'  hat.  It  is  not  good  to  make  money  when  peoples 
laugh.  Yah!  And  zen  he  must  learn  little  English, 
and  he  speak  *  Dago,'  jus'  like  me.  Or  how  can  he  make 
the  much  money,  eh?  Yah!  To  his  little  boys  and 
girls  he  talk  ze  good  language  of  his  own  land;  but 
zey?  Ach!  Zey  will  not.  In  ze  house,  yes;  so  not  to 
get  ze  beatings.  But  in  ze  street,  la !  la !  la!  la !  Gab- 


DAGO  851 

ble,  gabble,  gabble.  Some  day  zey  make  fun  of  daddy 
and  wink  and  say,  '  Dago ! ' 

"  And  he  is  '  Dago.'  Soon  he  find  himself  talking 
*  Dago  '  in  house,  even  wit'  his  wife.  Once  he  fight  and 
beat  her  and  all  cry  curses  —  in  his  own  speech?  Ah, 
no ;  in  *  Dago.'  He  call  her  *  Dam  dog '  and  she  say  to 
him  *  Go  t'  'ell ! '  and  zen  he  is  done.  His  skin  cannot 
change.  All  his  life  he  is  not'ing  —  he  is  American." 

It  was  the  strong  America  seizing  on  the  immigrant 
and  twisting  him  into  a  new  mold.  The  children  would 
be  Americans,  but  the  old  ones,  they  were  wrecked  in 
the  process.  The  Germans  became  "  Dutchmen  " ;  the 
Irish  became  "  Micks  " ;  the  Poles  became  "  Hunkies," 
and  the  Italians  "  Dagos." 

"But  sometimes  they  go  back,"  ventured  Blynn. 

Bardek  laughed  at  the  picture  his  mind  conjured. 

"Oh,  yes,  they  go  back.  La!  la!  la!  la!  What  a 
comic!  The  people  of  their  own  land  rush  out  of  t' 
house  to  see  t'  funny  t'ing.  La!  la!  la!  la!  The  dead 
clot'es  of  ragman !  The  go?  watch-chain  for  t'  tie  big 
dog!  Zen  they  talk!  It  is  no  language.  Perhaps 
they  stay  to  be  comic  all  their  lives?  Ah,  no.  For 
they  get  sick  for  America,  where  the  little  boys  and  girls 
go  to  school.  They  do  not  rest  till  zey  go  back  and  be 
once  more  *  Dago.' ' 

The  twilight  came  slowly  about  them  while  they  lin- 
gered over  the  camp-fire.  Some  of  Bardek's  brooding 
spirit  had  infected  them;  but  it  did  not  drive  them 
home.  Night  began  to  make  its  claims  for  a  habita- 


352  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

tion,  and  the  stars  of  a  fine  August  evening  shone  clear, 
yet  they  stayed  to  hear  Leopold  talk  of  his  boyhood 
days  at  Harrow.  Finally  they  joined  hands  with  him 
and  formed  the  circle  about  the  ebbing  fire  —  as  Har- 
row "  old  boys  "  have  done  for  generations  —  while  they 
sang  the  Harrow  parting  song: 

Forty  year  on,  when  afar  and  asunder 

Parted  are  those  who  are  singing  to-day, 
When  you  look  back,  and  forgetfully  wonder 

What  you  were  like  in  your  work  and  your  play; 
Then  it  may  be,  there  will  often  come  o'er  you 

Glimpses  of  notes,  like  the  catch  of  a  song  — 
Visions  of  boyhood  shall  float  them  before  you, 

Echoes  of  dreamland  shall  bear  them  along. 
Follow  up!  Follow  up!  Follow  up! 

Till  the  field  ring  again  and  again 
With  the  tramp  of  the  twenty-two  men. 

Follow  up!    Follow  up! 


XXVI 

THE    BIOLOGIST    AND    THE    PURITAN 

THE  solemnity  of  the  parting  song  had  driven 
Bardek  off  alone.  Allen  and  Kate  walked 
along  ahead,  but  at  the  Pennsylvania  Rail- 
road tracks,  a  dark,  forbidding  place,  Allen  insisted 
upon  stopping  to  wait  for  Gorgas  and  Leopold,  who 
were  straggling  far  in  the  rear.  Fumbling  accidentally 
in  his  pockets,  Blynn  produced  his  morning  mail,  two 
letters,  still  unopened.  They  moved  up  to  the  lights 
of  the  station  to  see  what  it  would  disclose.  One  was 
from  Gorgas  —  she  had  a  habit  of  jotting  notes  to  per- 
sons she  met  every  day.  He  glanced  at  it  hurriedly, 
but  in  the  bad  light  did  not  catch  the  full  meaning. 
The  other  letter  set  him  dancing. 

"  Can  you  spare  me  for  the  remainder  of  the  month, 
Madam  Manager,  and  part  of  September?  "  he  asked. 
His  eyes  showed  good  news. 

"  Is  it  money?  "  the  practical  manager  asked  first. 

"  Bushels !  "  he  cried.  "  Diccon  has  booked  a  series 
of  lectures  in  a  string  of  cities,"  he  read,  "  Rochester, 
Ithaca,  Albany,  Providence  and  Boston.  I  cover  the 
route  three  times,  fifteen  lectures  in  five  weeks,  at  — 
what  do  you  think?  One  hundred  dollars  each  and  ex- 
penses ! " 

353 


354*  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  How  much  is  that  altogether?  "  Kate  was  figur- 
ing. 

"  I  don't  know.  I'm  so  excited,  I  can't  count. 
One  hundred  apiece  —  child's  play !  I've  got  'em  all 
done.  Isn't  it  great !  and  isn't  it  robbery !  *  Each 
local  center  pays  three  hundred  dollars,'  he  read,  '  and 
expenses,  which  makes  it  one  hundred  dollars  per  lec- 
ture. I  hope  this  is  not  too  slight  an  honorarium.' 
Golly !  Too  slight  ?  Let  me  confess  something,  Kate. 
I  don't  take  any  pennies  out  of  the  cash-drawer  of 
Top-o'-the-Hill.  By  George!  you  don't  know  how 
splendid  I  feel  to  be  able  to  face  those  children  like  a 
man.  That  '  salary ' —  oh,  you  were  managing  it 
beautifully,  I  know  —  but  that  '  salary '  was  choking 
me,  even  before  I  got  any.  I'm  glad  that's  all  over  and 
settled." 

They  were  strolling  toward  home  through  the  wooded 
Seminary  grounds,  on  which  site  once  stood  the  old 
"  Classical  and  Military  Lyceum,"  where  Beauregarde, 
Meade  and  many  another  Northern  and  Southern 
officer  received  preliminary  training.  Over  these  same 
grounds,  in  1777,  came  Sullivan's  men,  driving  the 
British  advance  post  before  them ;  and  a  little  later,  on 
that  October  morning,  General  Washington  rode  down 
the  "  Great  Road  "  with  his  eager  staff. 

"  I  dug  a  cannon-ball  out  of  my  garden  the  other 
day,"  Allen  remarked  abruptly.  The  thrill  of  the  even- 
ing was  upon  them  and  they  had  had  no  need  for 
speech;  but  if  the  man  would  talk,  Kate  would  tuck 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      355 

her  hand  in  his  arm  and  be  content.  "  A  little  round, 
rusty  thing,  about  as  big  as  your  fist  —  it  made  me 
a  little  more  reverent  toward  this  old  battleground. 
.  .  .  The  Continentals  came  up  out  of  the  fog  over 
there,"  he  pointed  earnestly,  although  it  was  almost 
too  dark  to  see  him,  "  surprised  the  pickets  in  the 
Allen  House  and  bayoneted  every  one  —  poor  devils ! 
.  .  .  They  swept  on  over  this  ground,  firing  from  be- 
hind trees,  for  the  Fifty-second  British  Light  Infantry, 
who  were  tenting  over  there  in  the  fields  beyond  the 
New  Street,  were  stirring  out  like  hornets  —  and  such 
a  bugling  and  banging  there  must  have  been!  .  .  . 
The  Fifty-second  put  up  a  running  fight  and  weren't 
able  to  make  a  stand  for  nearly  a  mile.  .  .  .  Think  of 
it!  Washington  himself  followed  right  after  Sulli- 
van's men  —  perhaps  he  rode  over  this  very  spot! 
.  .  .  Doesn't  it  excite  you?" 

"  Not  a  bit,  Sentimental  Sir,"  she  laughed  coolly. 

"  You  are  standing,  mebbe,  on  historic  spots, 
madam ! "  he  mocked  her  laughter  with  assumed  stern- 
ness. "  That  battle  came  near  to  deciding  everything 

-  think  of  the  historic  persons  who  struggled  here  - 
Washington     and    Wayne,    and    Lafayette,    and  — 
and—" 

"  And  me,"  she  helped. 

"  Since  when  have  you  become  an  historic  person, 
madam?  " 

"'On  this  spot,'"  she  quoted  an  imaginary  stone, 
" «  one  wonderful  evening  late  in  August  in  the  year 
eighteen  hundred  and  ninety-two,  stood  Keyser  Lever- 


356  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

ing,  familiarly  known  as  Kate,  with  her  arm  linked  com- 
fortably in  that  of  a  poetic  but  pleasant  person 
otherwise  unknown.'  .  .  .  Washington  and  Lafayette 
were  nice  boys,"  said  she,  "  and  that  battle  was  their 
fun,  but  standing  here  very  much  alive  and  living  my 
little  life  is  all  the  history  I'll  ever  have;  so  I've  got 
to  make  the  most  of  it.  ...  Sentimental  Sir,  aren't 
you  going  to  get  all  worked  up  over  historic  me,  stand- 
ing here?  —  or  do  I  have  to  be  dead  before  it  is  proper 
to  become  really  stirred?  " 

She  waited  expectantly.  Kate  had  told  her  story 
to  this  man  in  as  many  veiled  ways  as  is  permitted  to  a 
lady ;  but  each  time  he  had  looked  at  her  earnestly,  as 
if  she  had  propounded  a  serious  riddle.  And  always 
it  amused  her  —  at  least  she  smiled  gamely  —  to  see 
how  really  obtuse  this  clever  man  could  be.  This 
time,  in  the  darkening  night,  she  could  not  see  his  eyes 
as  he  bent  forward;  but  she  felt  his  arm  tighten  and 
the  brotherly  pat  of  his  hand  upon  her  own. 

"  You're  all  right,  Kate,"  he  said ;  and  then,  "  Good 
old  Kate ! "  which  he  repeated  with  great  satisfaction. 
A  second  later,  he  asked  irrelevantly,  "  Where  are  those 
children?"  meaning  Gorgas  and  Leopold. 

They  peered  fruitlessly  into  the  darkness,  and  even 
retraced  their  steps  a  part  of  the  way  down  the  Valley, 
but  there  was  no  sign  of  them. 

"  They  have  felt  the  spell  of  the  evening  and  have 
tracked  off,"  Kate  suggested.  "  Didn't  Leopold  do 
that  song  well?  'Forty  year  on  when  afar  and  asun- 
der,' "  she  sang.  "  It  gave  me  a  thrill,  I  tell  you." 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      357 

"  Me,  too,"  Blynn  pressed  his  lips  together.  "  And 
how  he  felt  it !  Did  you  see  him  straining  to  keep  the 
tears  back?  Think  what  it  meant  to  him,  that  old 
parting  song  of  Harrow ! " 

The  floating  melody  and  the  words  of  the  song  lin- 
gered. By  association,  the  thought  of  Gorgas  came 
into  their  minds. 

"  They'll  be  home  before  us,"  Kate  spoke  out. 
"  While  we've  been  dawdling  along  they  have  probably 
taken  some  short  cut.  It  may  be  Gorgas  has  dragged 
Leopold  on  one  of  her  *  bee-lines.' '; 

"Well,  well!"  Blynn  laughed.  "At  night,  too. 
Gorgas  claims  that's  to  be  one  of  the  studies  in  Top-o'- 
the-Hill.  *  Cut  a  straight  path,'  she  says,  *  like  a 
bee,  only  bee-ier: 

'  Through  bush,  through  briar, 
Ice,  rain,  water,  fire; 
Over  river,  up  tree, 
Bee-ier  than  a  flying  bee, 
Through  hedge  and  over  gate, 
Straight!  straight!  straight!  straight!' 

"  She  goes  up  one  side  of  a  tree  and  down  the  other 
like  a  squirrel!  I  was  on  one  last  Wednesday. 
Phew!  She  chose  a  southeast  *  bee-line'  and  insisted 
upon  fording  the  Schuylkill  river,  clothes  and  all! 
She  said  her  conscience  wouldn't  let  her  back  out.  I 
just  had  to  follow  to  keep  her  from  mischief." 

They  were  not  at  home,  however,  when  Kate  and 
Allen  arrived,  nor  did  they  come  in  for  hours  after. 
Then  Gorgas  walked  in  alone.  She  was  rather  dis- 


358  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

beveled.     With   only   a   slight   word   of   greeting,   she 
went  up  the  stairs  as  if  she  were  tired  out. 
*•     '*  Another  *  bee-line,'  Gorgas  ?  "  Bl jnn  asked  cheer- 
fully. 

She  stopped  on  the  landing  and  looked  back  at  him. 

"  You  bet ! "  she  nodded  almost  angrily  and  moved 
swiftly  up  the  stairs. 

"What  is  a  *  bee-line'?"  Leopold,  at  the  doorway, 
asked  quietly.  He  was  spick  and  orderly  as  ever, 
save  that  his  tie  was  completely  off  its  moorings  and 
hanging  over  his  left  shoulder. 

Blynn  explained,  quoting  the  verses  of  the  game,  and 
joked  about  the  tell-tale  tie. 

"  Ah ! "  Leopold  adjusted  the  cravat  thoughtfully. 
"  She  did  not  give  a  name  to  it." 

That  night  Blynn  and  Leopold  walked  home  to- 
gether. They  talked  of  Gorgas  as  if  the  theme  had 
been  set  in  advance.  She  came  abruptly  into  their 
conversation,  but  so  intent  was  each  upon  his  own 
thought  that  neither  considered  the  need  of  apology  or 
explanation.  Without  introduction,  Leopold  began: 

"  She  is  beautifully  unschooled.  It  is  a  rare  thing 
nowadays  to  meet  a  natural  woman  —  and  with  the 
beginnings  of  a  mind." 

"  Sometimes,"  Blynn  pondered  as  he  talked,  "  I  have 
taken  pride  in  having  shaped  that  mind  of  hers.  But 
—  she  is  herself,  and  would  have  been  herself  without 
any  help  or  hindrance  from  me." 

"  You  have  done  much  for  her,"  Leopold  protested. 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      359 

"  Nonsense ! " 

"  Much !  I  recognize  it.  Some  of  your  Puritan  con- 
science is  in  her." 

"  How  do  you  make  that  out?  " 

Leopold  pondered  in  turn.  "Tonight  she  —  and 
on  other  nights,  too  —  she  —  but  I  can't  give  illustra- 
tions." 

Blynn  looked  at  him.  "I  think  I  understand,"  he 
brightened  up.  "  She  is  just  naturally  moral." 

Leopold  laughed  quietly.  "  Moral !  What  a 
wretched  word  1 " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  mean  — " 

"  Don't  explain,  friend  Allen.  I  know  you  don't 
mean  the  little  prudential  codes  of  playing  safe  and  get- 
ting on  in  life.  You  mean  that  she  has  principles  of 
conduct  which  she  has  thought  out  — " 

"  No,"  explained  Blynn.  "  I  don't  mean  that  at  all. 
She  has  principles  of  conduct,  all  right,  but  they  are 
not  thought  out;  they  are  instinctive.  She  plays  fair 
by  instinct;  she  couldn't  want  to  take  advantage:  not 
because  she  has  reasoned  the  thing  out,  but  because  — 
because  she  just  knows  it  isn't  the  square  thing  to  do. 
And  then  she  has  a  powerful  lot  of  self-respect  without 
a  trace  of  vanity.  She — " 

The  two  men  interrupted  each  other  continually. 
That  was  their  method  —  tossing  the  idea  back  and 
forth. 

"  Yes,"  Leopold  took  it  up,  "  she  fights  reason  with- 
out any  reason  at  all,  and  won't  let  herself  go.  She 
admits  things  with  delicious  candor ;  she  has  wants  and 


SCO  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

owns  up  to  them,  but  she  won't  let  herself  satisfy  them. 
She  knows  her  instincts,  but  she  holds  them  down." 

"  Good !  "  Blynn  commented.  "  She  has  character. 
Control  —  that's  the  whole  of  character.  But  we're 
talking  very  vaguely.  Wants !  Instincts !  What 
sort?  They  may  be  friends  or  enemies." 

"  Ha ! "  Leopold  interjected  gleefully.  "  That's  her 
very  phrase!  I  can  see  your  coaching  there,  old  boy! 
And  you've  done  a  good  job  —  so  far." 

"  I'm  glad,"  said  Blynn  simply.  The  thoughts  of 
the  two  men  were  on  totally  different  levels.  For  over 
an  hour  that  night  off  in  Cresheim  Valley,  Leopold  had 
been  matching  his  instincts  against  that  very  control 
which  meant  in  Gorgas,  character.  All  the  rushing 
events  of  that  tremulous  night  were  in  his  mind  as  he 
talked;  but  Blynn,  characteristically,  considered  only 
the  general  application  of  his  theory.  "  I'm  glad,"  he 
went  on.  "  I  wasn't  sure.  Her  mother  is  practically 
useless  to  her  —  so  is  her  sister,  for  that  matter.  I 
have  planted  a  few  seed-ideas,  that  is  all.  If  they've 
rooted,  I'm  glad.  But,  gracious  me!  She's  had  no 
chance  to  test  herself.  That  may  come;  but  it  will  be 
later,  when  she's  older  and  better  able  to  be  her  own 
master.  She's  quite  sheltered  here.  No  one  will 
bother  her  here.  What  — " 

Blynn  stopped  speaking.  A  self-satisfied  exclama- 
tion from  Leopold  arrested  his  thinking.  Some  of  his 
own  dormant  instincts  began  to  tug  at  his  mind  —  sus- 
picion, among  others,  and  a  swift,  unreasoned  touch  of 
jealousy;  but  he  checked  himself  and  went  on.  "Of 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      361 

course,  I  have  been  able  to  do  very  little.     A  man 
must  generalize,  he  must  — " 

"  She  understood  all  your  generalizations,"  Leopold 
interrupted. 

"  Did  she  say  —  but  —  how  could  you  know  ?  " 

"  She  told  me." 

"  Told  you  what?  " 

"  Well,  among  other  things,  she  told  me  your  story 
of  the  pale  wanderer  who  turned  a  whole  city  full  of 
people  into  lepers.  Ugh!  That  was  an  ugly  dose! 
It  got  into  her,  somehow,  and  sickened  her.  It  has 
made  her  afraid  to  let  go.  Leper !  Ugh !  How  could 
you?" 

"  Because  it  is  life,"  Blynn  spoke  warmly.  "  Ig- 
norance is  the  only  sin.  You  remember  your  Socrates. 
If  we  really  knew  all,  he  said,  we  would  never  embrace 
evil.  Ignorance  makes  our  criminals,  it  makes  our 
slums,  it  brings  into  the  world  cripple-minded  children, 
it  separates  mothers  and  fathers,  breeds  disease,  and 
corrupts  the  best  of  us.  We  don't  take  evil  into  our 
lives  because  we  believe  it  to  be  evil,  but  because  we 
ignorantly  think  it  good." 

"  Phew ! "  Leopold  affected  concern.  "  You  are  a 
Puritan!  Scratch  a  Puritan  and  find  a  preacher! 
.  .  .  Well ;  you've  made  her  half  a  Puritan  —  you  and 
your  ghastly  leper  —  and  it  is  a  good  thing."  Leo- 
pold nodded  sagely.  "  At  first,  I  did  not  like  it.  It 
seemed  inconsistent  with  her  strong  sense  of  individual 
freedom.  I  am  not  much  of  a  Puritan  myself.  I  obey 
my  will.  I  do  not  let  it  be  balked  by  creed  or  dictum 


362  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

made  by  others.  And  I  have  always  believed  in  giving 
the  same  freedom  to  everyone.  That  is  my  idea  of 
tolerance.  But  she  is  not  that  way  —  and,  strange,  I 
am  glad ! " 

They  talked  for  a  desultory  moment  on  freedom  and 
restrictions,  but  Leopold  came  back  to  Gorgas. 

"  She  is  not  wholly  Puritan,"  he  explained.  "  At 
tunes  —  no ;  at  other  times  —  tonight,  for  instance  — 
she  takes  fright,  calls  on  her  little  gods,  and  fights. 
You  it  is,  I  gather,  who  have  planted  that  in  her  — " 

"  Oh,  no ! "  Blynn  protested  grimly.  The  gener- 
alities of  Leopold  began  to  assume  horrid,  specific 
meanings.  His  slow  mind  was  racing  to  catch  up  with 
the  events.  The  "  bee-line,"  the  angry,  disheveled  Gor- 
gas mounting  the  stairs,  the  cravat  so  accusingly 
awry  —  what  did  they  mean?  Suddenly  his  memory 
began  to  piece  data  together,  material  that  had  been 
observed  by  his  eyes,  that  had  been  recorded  on  the 
phonographic-disk  of  a  brain,  but  which  never  before 
had  been  summoned  into  consciousness.  The  pictures 
that  he  conjured  made  him  ill,  and  as  he  walked  he 
drew  in  deep  breaths  to  steady  himself.  "  Oh,  no ! " 
he  repeated,  while  his  mind  throbbed,  "I  taught  her 
nothing.  She  has  her  own  character,  predestined  to 
grow  into  its  own  as  an  oak  from  an  acorn.  You  can't 
spread  morals  on  children  like  stucco  on  a  wall.  Char- 
acter is  the  self  revealed.  You  can  only  bring  it  out. 
But  with  Gorgas  I  didn't  even  bring  it  out.  It  was 
always  there." 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      363 

"I  believe  you,"  Leopold  answered.  "You  are 
quite  right.  And  I  am  glad.  Strange  that  I  should 
want  in  a  woman  the  qualities  that  I  do  not  respect  in 
myself." 

"  You  want  —  Gorgas?  " 

"  Yes." 

Leopold  went  on  calmly,  but  Allen  only  half  heeded 
him;  through  the  dark  they  strode,  the  biologist  pur- 
suing serenely  his  theory,  the  other  hearing  only  the 
turmoil  of  his  own  wild  thoughts.  Finally  the  pleasant 
voice  at  his  side  caught  Allen's  attention.  Leopold 
was  saying: 

14  There  is  something,  after  all,  in  that  old  worship 
of  chastity  in  women  —  the  '  double-standard,"  as  we 
call  it  today  —  something  more  than  merely  the  echo 
of  the  age  of  chivalry  or  the  offshoot  of  the  worship 
of  the  Virgin.  It  is  an  ingrained  necessity,  I  am  find- 
ing. A  man  must  be  sure  of  his  woman.  Faithful- 
ness, constancy,  unconquerability  —  those  are  the 
qualities  that  hold  us.  If  the  woman  surrenders  easily, 
we  men  suspect  that  the  next  comer  will  have  the  same 
victory.  Then  the  Othello-Desdemona  business!  The 
ideal  method,  I  fancy,  is  savage  seizure,  like  the  Sabines. 
The  longer  they  struggle,  the  longer  they'll  stay  con- 
tented in  captivity.  I'm  a  biologist.  In  biology  all 
mating  is  war  of  sex.  Gorgas  —  well  —  let  me  give 
you  an  added  confidence  —  tonight  I  took  her  in  my 
arms  forcibly  — " 

"  Leopold !  "     Blynn  clutched  him  by  the  arm. 


364  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Don't  be  alarmed,  my  Puritan  friend,"  Leopold 
laughed  pleasantly.  "  I  am  simply  courting  that 
young  lady  — " 

"  She  is  only  a  child ! "  Blynn  gasped. 

"  She  is  seventeen  —  will  be  eighteen  shortly.  Biol- 
ogy calls  that  quite  old  enough." 

Blynn  dropped  his  grasp.  "  She  is  only  a  child," 
he  repeated  firmly. 

"  My  mother  was  married  and  had  children  at  seven- 
teen," Leopold  considered  for  a  moment.  The  agita- 
tion of  his  companion  was  hid  by  the  darkness. 
"  Child?  Oh,  no,  my  dear  Allen  —  she  is  a  full-grown 
woman  —  charged  with  womanhood.  Well,  she  broke 
away  tonight.  ...  At  first,  I  was  angry  —  then  I 
was  glad.  Her  resistance  is  the  measure  of  her  con- 
stancy. .  .  .  You  don't  mind  my  talking  out  this  way, 
old  fellow." 

"No!  no!    Goon!" 

But  he  did  not  go  on.  Leopold's  sensitiveness  was 
slowly  taking  account  of  the  long  stride  of  the  man 
by  his  side.  As  they  passed  a  street-lamp  he  saw  the 
white  face  staring  ahead  into  the  night,  and  caught  the 
firm  lips  and  the  long,  deep  breathing. 

"  You  are  fond  of  her  ?  "  Leopold  asked  mildly. 

No  answer;  but  in  that  vibrating  moment  words 
were  not  essential. 

Unconscious  of  direction,  the  two  men  had  been 
marching  on  across  the  city-line,  and  were  now  pacing 
through  a  deeply  wooded  lane  in  Montgomery  county. 

"  I  always  fancied  it  was  a  purely  pedagogic  inter- 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      365 

est,"  Leopold  remarked,  as  if  to  the  trees  lined  thick 
along  the  road. 

Again  there  was  no  answer. 

"  So  !  "  Leopold  spoke  with  sympathy.  "  I  did  not 
know.  Forgive  me." 

"  Oh,  that's  all  right." 

They  tramped  along  sturdily. 

"  Have  you  told  her  that  you  — " 

"  Merciful  heavens ! "  Blynn  broke  forth ;  but  re- 
strained further  speech. 

"  Why  not?  "  Leopold  asked  kindly. 

"  She  is  a  child.  Oh,  yes  !  yes !  yes !  "  he  struck  down 
the  attempted  interruption.  "  I  have  taken  her  by  the 
hand  and  led  her  as  an  older  brother  might  take  his 
little  sister.  I  have  watched  over  her  .  .  .  talked  to 
her  of  books,  of  life,  of  God  ...  I  have  been  the  con- 
fidant of  her  little  troubles  and  have  —  have  —  tried 
to  give  her  courage  and  —  understanding.  She  has 
opened  the  door  of  her  life  to  me.  I  have  stepped 
within  and  have  broken  bread  with  her.  Now  .  .  . 
how  could  I  desecrate  .  .  .  how  could  I  sully  ...  I 
don't  mean  that.  It  is  hard  for  me  to  say,  Leopold. 
I  can't  explain  it  to  you.  To  me  she  is  still  a  serious- 
eyed,  fearless  child,  who  has  come  to  me  in  the  perfect 
faith  of  innocence.  .  .  .  My  reason  doesn't  tell  me 
that.  My  reason  tells  me  to  go  and  seize  her,  fight 
you  for  her,  and  carry  her  off.  But  there's  something 
else.  .  .  .  You  call  it  Puritan.  .  .  .  Maybe  it  is  racial, 
or  an  inheritance.  Maybe  it  is  only  superstition. 
Whatever  it  is,  it  holds  me  fast.  I  am  chained,  bound 


366  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

absolutely,  I  cannot  speak.  I  cannot  go  to  that 
child  and  —  and  —  unmask.  .  .  .  Let's  go  back." 

They  turned  and  trudged  along  the  uneven  road 
without  speaking  until  a  stray  light  or  two  along  the 
Chestnut  Hill  Pike  told  them  they  were  coming  back 
into  the  village. 

"  I  have  been  wondering,"  Leopold  spoke  thought- 
fully, "  what  it  is  that  draws  us  to  our  mates.  Nobody 
knows.  It  is  the  greatest  mystery  in  creation.  Let  us 
face  the  facts:  Gorgas  is  a  remarkable  girl;  she 
thinks ;  she  has  unusual  abilities.  Good !  But  that  is 
not  what  draws  us.  I  know  dozens  of  women  who  are 
her  superior  —  women  whose  conversation  is  —  well ! 
—  shall  I  say  more  congenial?  The  truth  is,  Gorgas 
is  not  ready  to  enter  on  an  intellectual  level  with  either 
of  us.  In  fact  —  well!  —  her  education  must  be  kept 
up  —  uh  —  afterwards.  You  are  right ;  in  many  re- 
spects she  is  yet  a  child.  I  see  things  as  a  biologist: 
I  fancy  that  her  charm,  after  all,  is  her  youth  and  her 
astonishing  health.  That  is  the  mating  cry  —  health." 

"  If  you  don't  mind,  Leopold,"  Blynn  stopped,  "I'll 
leave  you  here  and  cut  off  across  this  field  alone." 

Leopold  laughed  pleasantly. 

"  I  shock  your  good  old  Puritan  soul,  I  see.  Noth- 
ing shocks  me.  God  made  all,  and  there  is  no  high  nor 
low  —  that's  my  simple  creed.  And  don't  forget  that 
in  biology  man  is  not  different  from  the  rest  of  creation ; 
we  are  only  vertebrata,  my  good  friend,  subject  all  to 
the  same  law  of  life;  biology  knows  no  Chosen  Species. 
Good  night,  old  Allen.  ...  I  am  sorry  we  did  not 


THE  BIOLOGIST  AND  THE  PURITAN      367 

have  this  talk  earlier.  I  am  not  strong  for  self-sacri- 
fice, but,  really,  I  believe,  if  I  had  known,  I  —  well,  I 
would  not  have  let  things  go  so  far." 

Blynn  looked  hard  at  him,  in  his  eyes  the  fire  of  a 
zealot. 

"  Things  have  —  have  —  gone  far ;  have  they?  " 

"  Quite,"  said  Leopold.     "  Quite  far." 

After  that  night  Blynn  withdrew  abruptly  from  the 
daily  councils  at  "  Top-o'-the-Hill."  The  preparation 
of  the  lectures  seemed  to  be  taking  all  his  time.  He 
dropped  in  on  the  group  once  or  twice  for  a  moment's 
chat,  and  to  see  the  progress,  but  his  mind  seemed  ever 
hard  at  work,  selecting  and  rejecting  material.  That 
series  must  be  a  great  go,  he  explained;  he  would  put 
his  best  into  it,  and  give  them  the  worth  of  their  money. 
In  two  weeks  he  was  off  to  Rochester. 


XXVII 

TZOO-OOM  ! 

WHEN  Allen  left  for  his  lecture  tour,  Gorgas 
immediately  knocked  off  work  and  gave  her- 
self up  to  gloomy  thoughts.  She  began  to 
discover  what  a  lonely  child  she  had  always  been ;  she 
who  had  had  parents,  but  no  real  mother  and  father; 
and  now  mon  capitame  (mon  due,  mon  prince!)  was 
busy  with  his  own  affairs.  Bardek,  too,  had  been  in  the 
depths  —  it  was  Leopold's  doleful  song  that  had  set 
him  off.  "  One  should  not  sing  of  *  For-r-ty  year-r 
on,'  "  he  growled,  "  not  when  one  is  for-r-ty  year-r 
on !  "  The  "  smitty  "  was  therefore  deserted.  And 
Leopold  had  been  absolutely  debarred  from  the  Lever- 
ings  ;  Gorgas  would  send  for  him  when  she  wanted  him. 
There  comes  a  night  when  lights  go  up  in  Bardek's 
"  white-wash  house."  Gorgas  is  gloomily  swinging  in 
a  hammock  in  the  orchard.  She  listens  to  the  clatter 
and  to  the  singing,  and  knows  that  Bardek  has  re- 
covered his  spirits.  Are  they  dancing?  She  can  hear 
the  thump  of  the  children's  heavy  shoes,  and  she  can 
see  forms  flash  back  and  forth  between  the  light  and 
the  window.  Bardek's  voice  is  roaring;  and  an  occa- 
sional squeal  from  the  inexpressive  little  wife  is  a  cer- 
tain sign  of  good  times. 

368 


TZOO-OOM !  369 

Hey  ho !  She,  too,  could  be  happy  if  she  chose.  Off 
there  in  the  dark,  Leopold  was  waiting;  waiting  with 
fearful,  confident  patience,  she  thought  and  shuddered. 
If  she  chose  —  but  she  could  not  will  to  choose.  Not 
yet,  at  any  rate ;  she  would  wait  a  while. 

After  a  time  the  noise  subsided  in  Bardek's  cottage. 
The  lamp  moved  into  the  kitchen,  and  finally  it  travelled 
up  the  stairs  and  into  the  children's  room.  It  was  the 
putting-to-bed  hour,  a  happy  sky-larking  time  in  the 
Bardek  household. 

So  much  happiness  near  at  hand  was  almost  too  much 
for  Gorgas.  The  shrill  voices  of  the  children  especially 
were  painful  as  they  came  clear  on  the  night  air ;  it 
made  her  feel  more  motherless  and  deserted  than  is 
quite  bearable.  She  turned  her  back  to  the  joyous 
windows  and  strove  fiercely  to  keep  down  the  desire  to 
give  way  to  tears.  But  they  would  come;  little  trick- 
ling ones  first ;  then  huge,  coursing  ones ;  and,  finally,  a 
very  deluge. 

The  man  who  had  been  her  "  lord  and  master  "  all 
her  life  —  all  the  life  that  counted  —  had  gone  gravely 
away  without  so  much  as  a  smiling  goodby.  For  days 
she  had  been  watching  him  hungrily  as  he  talked  with 
seriousness  —  to  everybody  but  to  her  —  of  his  dates, 
cities,  halls,  subjects ;  and  she  could  glean  nothing  from 
his  sober  face  but  an  alarming  interest  in  lectures.  All 
her  life  she  had  given  him  the  first  place  in  her  heart 
and  was  content ;  with  an  absurd  faith,  as  the  days  of 
her  childhood  flitted  by,  that  all  would  surely  be  right 
in  the  end ;  and  now  she  was  telling  herself  that  she  had 


370  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

been  deceived  by  a  dream.  He  was  not  for  her ;  to  him 
she  was  a  child,  an  interesting  child,  to  be  sure,  capable 
in  many  ways  above  other  children,  but  only  one  of  a 
hundred  or  more  of  his  "  cases,"  one  which  he  had  prob- 
ably card-catalogued  under  the  "  L's,"  with  penciled 
notes  —  a  pedagogic  specimen ! 

It  was  hateful,  and  she  cried  aloud  her  protest;  it 
was  unfair;  and  it  was  not  to  be  endured.  But  even 
as  she  protested  wildly  in  the  dark  of  the  orchard,  she 
felt  the  pitiless  certainty  of  the  facts;  for  once  more 
she  had  written  him  a  letter  —  to  be  sure,  it  was  only 
a  funny  little  request  for  an  "  interview  with  the  great 
man,"  written  under  his  very  nose,  and  put  in  his  own 
hand  to  mail;  with  characteristic  disregard  of  her  he 
had  posted  the  letter  without  once  looking  at  it  —  and 
he  had  neglected  to  answer  it. 

On  the  day  before  he  left  Mount  Airy,  she  had  seen 
the  small  gray  note  among  a  bundle  that  he  had  sorted 
out  in  public ;  and  the  sight  of  it  had  sent  her  face  flam- 
ing, as  if  it  would  shout  its  contents  to  all  the  world; 
but  he  had  given  it  one  frowning  stare  and  passed  it 
over  without  a  touch  of  recognition,  so  intent  was  he 
on  his  own  affairs. 

No  better  proof,  she  thought,  of  the  gulf  that  sepa- 
rated them.  Morris  had  taught  her  to  be  a  "  sport," 
and  all  her  instinct  bade  her  bear  without  flinching. 
She  would  face  the  facts,  be  they  or  be  they  not  to  her 
hurt  —  but,  oh,  the  bitterness  of  the  reality.  Her 
childhood's  dream  was  far  better,  picturing  something 


TZOO-OOM !  371 

always  off  in  the  future,  always  a  possible  event.  .  .  . 
If  — 

No.  His  face  was  "  on  the  outside  "  as  Bardek  had 
said ;  and  during  those  last  few  days  could  there  be  any 
mistaking  of  the  calm,  self-absorbed  Allen?  If  it  had 
been  hers  to  choose,  would  she  have  elected  a  public 
lecture  tour  as  against  the  partner  of  her  soul? 

Oh,  no !  Though  Boston  and  New  York  and  all  the 
cities  of  Christendom  called  in  dulcet  tones!  Oh,  no! 

The  lamp  had  come  down  in  the  Bardek  house.  In 
the  Levering  home  a  low  light  burned  in  the  library. 
Her  mother  and  father  were  there,  she  knew;  but  the 
thought  of  meeting  them  and  talking  of  everyday  mat- 
ters was  too  repellent.  How  far  away  they  were  from 
her  now,  and  always  had  been!  And  how  much,  just 
now,  she  needed  the  comfort  of  communion.  She  gazed 
wistfully  at  Bardek's  gay  light.  His  great  laugh  came 
through  the  trees  and  cheered  her  wonderfully.  Dear 
old  Bardek,  mother  and  sister  and  father-confessor,  all 
rolled  into  one !  She  would  go  to  Bardek  and  lay  her 
little  troubles  in  his  huge  palm. 

The  Bardek  house  was  without  corridors.  One 
opened  the  front  door  and  stood  within.  And  who 
would  dream  of  knocking  at  that  democratic  portal! 
So  she  slipped  noiselessly  along  the  grass,  which  grew 
to  the  very  edge  of  the  house,  turned  the  knob  quietly 
and  entered. 

Bardek  was  facing  her,  standing  like  a  statue  in  the 
middle  of  the  low  room.  The  light  was  behind  him,  so 


372  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

that  Gorgas,  coming  in  out  of  the  darkness,  was  not 
able  instantly  to  comprehend  that  the  little  wife,  clad 
in  the  gayest  of  garments,  deep  reds  and  greens,  with 
a  glorious  scarf  of  gold  about  her  head,  was  folded 
snugly  in  the  Bohemian's  sturdy  arms. 

"  Oh  !  "  cried  Gorgas,  and  started  back. 

"  Come  in ! "  welcomed  Bardek,  without  moving  the 
fraction  of  an  inch,  save  the  necessary  tightening  of  his 
hold  on  the  shy  wife. 

"  Oh,  no !  No !  "  cried  Gorgas,  shocked  at  her  in- 
trusion. 

"  Come  in,  I  say !  "  roared  Bardek.  "  We  jus'  cele- 
br-r-rate  our  marriage  —  zat  is  all.  Come  in,  and  see 
how  it  is  done.  ...  Be  still,  Bit-of-my-heart,"  he 
called  to  the  struggling  wife,  but  in  some  staccato  dia- 
lect of  Hungary.  "  We  must  be  the  teacher  of  the 
beautiful  Gorgas  in  all  things,  and  this  is  what  she 
should  learn  to  do ;  and  it  must  be  done  well,  or  life 
itself  is  spilled  to  the  wind."  This  he  translated  gayly 
to  Gorgas.  "  Come  in,  LiebscTien!  This  is  our  mar- 
riage day.  It  is  the  day  I  take  the  wonderful  woman 
when  she  is  but  wonderful  girl,  take  her  right  out  of  the 
street  where  she  squat  beside  the  orange  cart  wit'  her 
peddling  mother;  and  I  do  not  know  her  name;  and  I 
will  not  know  it,  so  I  can  call  her  love  names  all  her 
life  —  I  take  her  from  her  oranges,  and  quick  into  the 
biggest  cathedral  in  all  Hungary,  and  kneel  before  the 
altar,  and  call  upon  the  priest  to  come  marry  us  before 
I  cut  him  open  to  see  what  make  him  so  fat  and  slow." 


TZOO-OOM!  373 

The  invitation  in  their  eyes  was  so  real  that  Gorgas 
slipped  weakly  to  a  chair  near  the  door. 

"  He  say  to  wait  five,  six,  seven  week  or  it  not  a  mar- 
riage," Bardek  went  on.  "  «  Five,  six,  seven  week  ! '  I 
cry ;  *  in  that  time  she  be  grow  up  and  ol'  woman  !  And 
I?  Every  day  of  zose  week  I  die  of  waiting.  Five, 
six,  seven  week?  Not  five,  six,  seven  minute!';  and  I 
scare  zat  priest  by  the  things  I  say.  And  when  I  show 
him  gold,  he  not  so  scared,  but  raise  up  the  hands  and 
make  the  language  which  I  give  him  to  make. 

"  And  when  all  is  done, '  Tzoom!  '  I  cry,  and  explain : 
'  Zat  is  the  big  bell  up  in  Heaven  which  bring  all  the 
angels  to  the  Gates  of  Earth,  through  which  they  now 
look  down;  and  Tzoo-oom!' — he  nearly  drop  dead  for 
think  I  be  madman !  — '  zat  is  the  bell  which  break  open 
the  Gates  of  Earth  and  fling  the  glad  angels  toward 
this  good  world  of  love;  and  Tzoo-oo-oom! '  I  roar  like 
the  roar  of  Saint  Peters  in  Rome  when  they  make  the 
new  Pope,  '  zat  is  the  bell  which  make  this  woman  of 
my  blood  and  of  my  flesh,  and  carry  us  together,  up 
straight  up,  up,  up  with  the  singing  angels  to  the 
Heaven  itself.'  And  zen  I  take  her  in  my  arms,  and 
lift  her  to  her  little  toes,  and  hug  her  till  she  forget  for 
little  while  to  live!  ...  Ah!  But  she  nevair  forget 
zat  marriage !  Nevair !  " 

As  he  talked  he  interrupted  himself  often  to  utter 
weird  sayings  to  the  happy  wife,  so  that  she  half  turned 
in  his  arms,  and  seemed  to  understand  that  he  was  tell- 
ing Gorgas  of  the  wonderful  wedding  day.  And 


374  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Gorgas  contemplated  their  happiness  with  the  greatest 
sympathy  and  with  a  longing  that  was  akin  to  pain. 

"So!"  Bardek  went  on  jubilantly.  "On  zat  won- 
derful day  in  May,  which  we  now  celebr-r-ate  —  ah, 
May  is  in  Hungary  of  all  months  the  — " 

"  But  Bardek,"  Gorgas  interrupted,  for  a  moment 
forgetting  her  personal  grief.  "  This  is  not  May,  it 
is  September."  She  could  not  be  mistaken  about  this, 
for  in  three  days  it  would  be  the  tenth,  her  birthday, 
and  Allen  had  promised  her  a  mysterious  gift  on  that 
day. 

"  Of  course !  "  smiled  Bardek.  "  So  we  celebr-r-ate 
our  marriage." 

"  But  if  it  was  May  when  you  — : 

"  You  would  wait  until  it  come  May  again  ?  "  he 
inquired  mildly. 

By  this  time  he  had  sat  himself  in  a  big  chair,  and 
the  wife  had  dropped  to  the  floor,  draping  herself  about 
his  knee.  The  scarf  of  gold  spread  out  in  a  brilliant 
streamer;  the  greens  and  reds  of  her  Hungarian  cos- 
tume tumbled  over  one  another  in  a  riot  of  unpremedi- 
tated folds.  The  blood  was  afire  in  her  gypsy  face, 
and  her  eyes  were  two  dark  lights.  By  the  magic  of 
adoration  this  peasant  woman  was  transformed  into  a 
thing  of  rare  delight. 

"  But  if  you  were  married  in  May,"  Gorgas  was  say- 
ing* "  Jou  could  not  have  an  anniversary  until  — 

"  Ho ! "  cried  Bardek  in  great  glee,  and  then  com- 
municated exultant  things  to  the  gay  wife,  patting  her 
on  the  head  the  while,  and  tweaking  her  brown  ears. 


TZOO-OOM!  375 

"  Ho !  "  he  turned  to  Gorgas.     «  You  would  wait  until 
it  come  May  again!     You  are  like  the  priest  who  I 
scare  all  the  Latin  out  of!     You  would  wait  five,  six, 
seven  week!     You  would  wait  until  the  earth  go  about 
the  sun  just  sol  —  until  the  constellations  of  the  heav- 
ens be  just  so!    You  cannot  praise  God  until  it  be 
Sunday ;  you  cannot  be  married  when  Nature  cries  out 
it  is  time,  and  you  would  let  the  calendar  make  you 
slave  when  you  would  have  anniversary!     Ho!     It  is 
superstitious  you  are !     Sometimes  I  have  celebr-r-ated 
zat  marriage  three  times  in  one  month!     Here  is  my 
calendar  of  days ! "  he  slapped  his  heart  right  lustily. 
"  Many  things  might  make  me  celebr-r-ate,"  he  went 
on.      *  This   time  it  was  your  Leopold  and  his  ugly 
song.     <  For-r-ty   year-r  on,  when   afar-r  and   asun- 
der-r,"  he  rolled  his  r's  vigorously.     "  It  is  a  song 
that   give   me   the   blue   devils    of   regret.     'For-r-ty 
year-r  on ! »  it  is  no  song  to  sing,  when  it  is  I,  Bardek, 
who  is  '  for-r-ty  year-r  on/  and  do  not  want  to  remem- 
ber zat  it  is  so  !     '  For-r-ty  year-r  on ! '     Heugh !     It 
is  a  oP  man's  song ;  and  I  must  sing  it  over  and  over  in 
my   brain,    till   I    cannot   work,   and   grow    sick   wit* 
thoughts  of  gray  head  and  teeth  falling  out,  and  feel 
my  bones  go  stiff,  and  —  heugh !     So  I  be  ol'  man  for 
two,  three  day,  and  zen  I  make  celebr-r-ation  and  chase 
the  bad  thoughts  out.     To  this  little  Bit-of-my-heart  I 
say,  l  Quick,  get  into  the  beautiful  clothes  of  Hungary, 
put  on  the  scarf  of  gold,  and  the  earrings  and  the 
spangles  of  gold,  and  we  will  have  again  our  marriage 
day !     *  Tzoo-oom! '   '   he   boomed    suddenly,    and    ca- 


376  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

ressed   the  lady's  head  with  huge  confidence.     "  And 
now  I  am  young  again !  " 

Even  though  he  had  seemed  so  absorbed  in  his  own 
contemplations,  Bardek's  quick  eye  had  noted  the  droop 
in  Gorgas'  shoulders,  and  the  discouraging  sadness  in 
her  mien. 

"  Zat  song?  "  he  asked  her ;  "  it  make  ugly  thoughts 
for  you,  too ;  eh,  my  Gorgas  ?  " 

She  tried  to  speak,  but  found  it  easier  to  shake  her 
head.  No;  it  was  not  the  song  that  had  taken  the 
spring  out  of  her  life. 

"U-m!"  hummed  Bardek  sympathetically.  And 
then,  with  characteristic  abruptness,  he  asked,  "  When 
is  it  zat  you  go  to  the  priest  and  make  the  bells  of 
Heaven  go,  tzoom!  —  eh?  " 

This  was  too  much  for  Gorgas.  It  brought  with 
benumbing  clearness  the  vision  of  her  own  forlorn  place 
in  the  world.  There  would  be  for  her  no  exulting  Bar- 
dek to  seize  her  out  of  the  street  beside  her  cart  of 
oranges,  carry  her  to  the  nearest  altar,  and  start  the 
very  heavens  a-tzooming  for  joy.  But  she  was  too 
brave  a  lass  to  weep  in  the  presence  of  Bardek  and  his 
lady,  although  it  was  a  glistening  eye  and  a  trembling 
lip  which  smiled  gamely  at  them. 

"  Leopold  — "  she  began,  but  words  were  too  diffi- 
cult; so  she  stopped  pathetically,  and  seemed  to  beg 
Bardek  to  understand. 

"  H-m,"  said  he.  "  Leopold,  eh  ?  ...  He  is  very 
wonderful  man.  .  .  .  Very  smart.  .  .  .  He  know  — 
everything."  Bardek  spread  out  his  palms  humbly. 


TZOO-OOM !  377 

"  You  would  celebr-r-ate  wit'  Leopold,  eh? "  He 
watched  her  narrowly,  but  she  did  not  answer.  "Of 
course,  you  would  know.  You  would  not  have  to  look 
in  a  book  for  to  find  out  zat  —  or  to  ask  the  mother 
if  it  be  so !  .  .  .  You  would  know.  .  .  .  And  it  is  very 
important  to  know;  for  if  you  do  not  know  whether 
you  will  want  to  smash  the  calendar  and  have  two,  three 
celebr-r-ation  in  one  month,  and  all  the  times  after 
which  you  do  live  together,"  he  spread  his  palms  a 
trifle  higher,  "  well,  zen  you  should  not  begin  —  much 
better  to  die.  ...  So  it  is  Leopold,  eh?  " 

"  No !  "  she  struggled  to  her  feet.  "  No,  Bardek, 
it  is  not  Leopold.  He  wants  me,  but  I  won't  have  him. 
I  won't!  He  frightens  me,  and  always  did,  from  the 
time  he  began  to  watch  me,  like  a  big,  big — "  She 
could  not  find  the  word.  "  It  is  not  Leopold  1 " 

Bardek's  sudden  laugh  drew  her  out  of  her  tragic 
plane,  and  in  some  inexplicable  way  gave  her  a  touch 
of  gladness. 

"  I  know  zat  it  is  not  Leopold ! "  he  cried.  "  I  could 
see  it  in  your  two  eyes  zat  it  is  not !  And  I  could  see 
it  in  your  two  eyes  who  zat  it  is!  Ah!  Your  eyes 
zey  tell  me  whenever  you  do  look  at  him !  .  .  .  And  zat 
is  so  right  now!  So  right!  .  .  . 

His  own  two  eyes  beamed  and  sparkled  upon  her,  and 
seemed  to  shout  congratulations,  and  many  happy  re- 
turns of  the  day.  To  his  wife  he  confided  uproariously ; 
so  clearly,  indeed,  that  Gorgas  understood  every  word 
and  gesture;  and  as  he  mounted  to  Hungarian  elo- 
quence, she  began  to  catch  some  of  the  contagion  of 


378  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

his  confidence:  the  despairing  thoughts  born  of  reality 
began  to  clear  out,  vanish  like  a  cloud  rack  before  the 
west  wind ;  and  she  revived  her  spirits  with  the  vitality 
of  Bardek's  optimism. 

At  his  call  she  came  over  and  sat  down  on  the  floor 
beside  the  wife,  Bardek  presiding  above  them  like  a 
patriarch  of  old.  And  the  wife,  so  often  smilingly 
mute  in  that  household,  broke  forth  in  a  musical  chirp- 
ing of  congratulations,  and  stroked  Gorgas'  hair,  and 
patted  her  cheek,  and  welcomed  her  to  the  inner  shrine 
of  spouses !  To  Gorgas  it  was  a  very  blessed  ordina- 
tion. For  a  little  while  she  would  pretend,  she  defended 
herself,  and  then  — 

But  Bardek  was  in  full  flow:  "With  him,  with  the 
good  Allen,  you  would  celebr-r-ate ;  eh,  mein  Liebschen, 
ma  fleur  du  bois?  Marriage?  Ho!  Zat  is  easy  to 
do  —  it  take  five,  six  week ;  or  it  take  five,  six  minute  — 
but  to  celebr-r-ate,  it  must  last  all  the  life !  There  are 
many  peoples  who  have  had  just  marriage,  with  con- 
fetti, and  bands  and  dancing  and  much  wine,  but  zey 
will  never,  never  celebr-r-ate !  Ho !  It  would  be  comic 
to  see  zem  even  to  try!  Comic?  It  would  be  pain! 
.  .  .  For  to  celebr-r-ate,  it  is  to  be  two  peoples  wit* 
body  and  bone  and  blood  of  one  —  See !  —  ze  blood  it 
go  up  my  arm,  and  through  my  aor-r-ta,  and  presto! 
it  is  humming  along  zis  little  woman's  pink  ear  and 
making  the  eyes  to  dance!  And  ze  daughter  of  ze 
peddling  mother  must  in  dose  times  rise  to  be  ze  queen 
of  all  ze  wor-r-ld  —  regma  dei  gratia  et  potentissima  et 
pulchrissima!  .  .  .  Look  at  her,  mein  Liebschen.  To 


TZOO-OOM !  379 

you  she  is,  I  know  not  what  strange  child  of  Europa  — " 

"  She  is  beautiful ! "  murmured  Gorgas. 

"  Ah !  I  make  you  see  a  little  wit'  my  eyes,"  his  voice 
grew  tender;  "but  you  do  not  know.  Even  you,  my 
Gorgas,  are  as  nothing  to  her.  You  are  good  —  mais 
oui!  —  but  I  would  not  walk  wit'  you  one,  two,  free 
step  when  she  crook  the  finger  and  smile,  '  Come!  '  " 

All  this  was  very  wonderful  to  Gorgas,  this  most  inti- 
mate revelation  of  the  deep  privacy  of  domestic  happi- 
ness ;  and  because  she  believed  that  it  was  the  true  state 
of  all  right  marriages,  she  reveled  in  its  beauty;  and 
then  she  shivered  at  the  stark  reality  that  was  hers. 
For  her  there  would  be  no  "  celebrations." 

But  she  would  not  give  way  again.  "  That's  all 
very  pretty  and  poetic,  Bardek,"  she  sat  up  straight, 
and  seemed  to  fling  off  the  romantic  spell  which  the 
Bohemian  had  set  vibrating.  "  I'm  better  now.  Had 
a  good  cry  out  there,"  she  jabbed  a  hand  toward  the 
orchard.  "Lonesome,  I  guess.  Came  in  here  to  get 
cheered  up  —  and  you  did  it!  Sure  did!"  She 
searched  the  room  with  wondering  eyes,  as  if  trying 
to  comprehend  how  a  hut  like  this  could  be  so  charged 
with  happiness.  "  But  I'm  different,  Bardek."  That 
was  her  own  answer  to  the  survey  she  had  just  made. 
"  I  wanted  something  .  .  .  and  wanted  it  ...  more 
—  well!  why  talk  about  it—"  With  a  great  effort 
she  controlled  a  quavering  voice.  "  I  am  not  to  have 
it  — that's  all." 

Bardek  watched  her  with  deep  sympathy.  All  the 
time,  he  stroked  the  head  of  the  gypsy  girl  at  his  knee, 


380  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

and  seemed  to  agree  with  Gorgas.  But  to  himself  he 
said,  as  he  admitted  later,  "  She  must  suffer  first,  be- 
cause it  is  the  demand  of  love  that  we  suffer;  in  no 
other  way  can  we  give  it  its  true  value;  and  then  she 
will  believe  better  when  she  has  plumbed  the  depths  of 
doubt." 

She  got  a  grip  on  herself  and  went  on :  "I  must 
not  fool  myself  any  longer.  ...  It  is  madness.  .  .  . 
I'd  soon  be  fit  for  nothing.  .  .  .  Leopold  is  all  right. 
I've  known  him  all  my  life.  He  likes  me,  and,  in  a 
way,  I  like  him.  We  have  had  great  times  together. 
I'll  get  over  the  shock  of  his  liking  me  in  the  way  —  in 
the  way  he  does.  .  .  .  Got  sort  of  used  to  it  already. 
I  told  him  I'd  let  him  know.  He's  waiting.  He  said 
I  didn't  know  myself  .  .  .  that  I'd  come  to  him  .  .  . 
*  like  the  tides  rise  and  follow  the  irresistible  moon,' 
he  said.  ...  I  guess  he  was  right.  .  .  .  He  knows  a 
lot  about  me!  It  seems  a  little  bit  unfair,  but  I  sup- 
pose —  Suppose,  nothing ! "  She  got  herself  up 
suddenly  from  the  comfortable  floor,  and,  at  the  mo- 
tion, seemed  to  bring  her  resolutions  together.  "  I 
can't  stand  this  any  longer,"  she  turned  to  Bardek. 
"  Leopold  it  is  and  must  be  —  I'd  better  get  used  to 
it  —  and  all  I've  got  to  do  is  to  walk  down  that  road 
twenty  steps  and  whistle." 

She  moved  resolutely  toward  the  door.  "  There  is 
one  way  to  settle  it  once  and  for  all,"  she  said,  "  a  sure 
way  to  end  all  the  suffering  which  comes  of  uncer- 
tainty —  and  it  is  better,"  she  insisted,  "  to  stop  for- 
ever the  doubt  and  the  pain." 


TZOO-OOM!  381 

"Twenty  paces  down  the  road,"  thought  Bardek. 
"  Why,  then  it  would  be  all  over  for  the  little  Gorgas, 
and  settled  for  life  —  like  two  puffs  of  a  cigarette ! " 

Her  hand  was  on  the  knob  before  Bardek  called 
softly  to  her. 

"Yes,  Bardek?"  she  asked,  for  he  had  not  spoken 
more  than  her  name.  She  looked  magnificently  strong 
and  able  as  she  stood  blocked  out  in  dark  tints  against 
his  white  door;  and  the  weariness  and  the  despon- 
dency had  gone  from  her;  wavering  uncertainty  had 
made  place  for  the  mind  made  up.  She  could  not  have 
her  first  wish;  very  well;  she  would  accept  the  next 
best,  and  it  would  not  be  done  half-heartedly;  and 
once  accepted,  she  would  be  loyal  to  the  death.  All 
this  Bardek  noted  as  he  looked  at  her. 

"  But  it  is  another  story  zat  I  happen  to  know," 
he  began  softly.  "  Allen  Blynn  has  not  told  me  in 
words,  for  then  I  could  not  speak  wit'out  being  tattle- 
tale,  but  I  have  listened  wit'  my  eyes  and  wit'  my  heart 
—  oh,  a  very  good  ear  my  heart  has  !  —  and  so  I  know 
zat  it  is  the  good  Allen  who  prays  on  his  knees  every 
night  zat  some  day  he  will  have  courage  to  ask  my 
Gorgas  to  try  to  like  him  —  jus'  a  leetle  bit,  mebbe!" 

Slowly  he  drew  her  from  the  door.  She  protested. 
He  argued  subtly  —  it  was  the  fight,  he  said,  against 
the  Evil  One  for  the  life  of  a  woman,  so  it  needs  must 
be  subtle.  Slowly  he  drew  her  again  to  her  place  be- 
side him  on  the  floor.  And  then  he  poured  forth  the 
eloquence  that  only  Bardek  could  summon.  He  made 
her  cry  and  he  made  her  laugh;  and  he  filled  her  with 


382  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

hope.  Who  could  doubt  Bardek  when  he  rose  to  his 
best  ?  And  when  the  theme  is  Love  —  ah !  Bardek 
could  have  made  great  strides  toward  converting  the 
Evil  One  himself ! 

"But  how  do  you  know,  Bardek?"  Gorgas  de- 
manded. 

Ah,  he  knew !  He,  Bardek,  had  been  born  with  both 
of  his  two  eyes  open!  The  ways  of  Allen  Blynn  were 
not  hidden  from  him.  And  the  little  Gorgas  must  not 
let  despair  and  fear  in  at  tHe  heart,  for  they  are  the 
father  and  mother  of  failure.  Much  he  told  her  of 
Allen,  evidence  that  piled  up  against  the  absent  swain, 
until  some  of  the  despair  and  fear  fled  at  his  strong 
touch.  The  pretestings  of  Gorgas  grew  weaker  as 
Bardek  plied  his  argument. 

Among  other  matters  he  related  one  of  the  many 
debates  which  he  and  Allen  had  had  together.  Blynn 
had  been  standing  for  a  reaction  against  the  type  of 
freedom  —  free  will,  free  love,  free  anything  —  which 
had  been  pulsing  from  the  "  lunacy  fringe  "  of  the  rad- 
icals for  a  generation  or  more.  "  They  do  not  seem 
to  understand,"  Blynn  had  argued,  "  that  there  is 
something  higher  than  individual  will  —  or  even  the  in- 
dividual nation's  will,  as  Alexander  and  Napoleon  have 
long  ago  found  out  —  something  which  demands  sur- 
render, acquiescence."  Bardek  had  been  defending  life 
as  the  expression  of  the  individual  right  to  live ;  Blynn 
had  taken  the  side  of  individual  renunciation.  "  But 
there  is  a  divine,  far-off  event  to  which  the  whole  crea- 


TZOO-OOM !  383 

tion  moves,"  said  Blynn ;  "  and  while  our  irresistible 
part  is  that  of  free  spirits,  yet  we  are  most  free  when 
we  bind  the  law  upon  ourselves."  That  was  the  philos- 
ophy of  Allen  Blynn. 

"  He  is  not  one  to  seize  the  daughter  of  the  orange 
woman,"  laughed  Bardek,  "  and  zen  make  a  new  serv- 
ice of  marriage  for  himself !  Ho !  He  would  beat  his 
breast  wit'  ze  big  stone  and  wait  four,  five,  six  week ! 
Now  you !  You  are  like  me  —  it  make  you  sick  to 
wait.  So !  I  say,  do  not  wait.  Go  to  him.  Tell  him 
to  hurry.  Tell  him  you  cannot  wait  for  God's  big 
universe  to  come  to  end,  but  it  must  come  now !  Go 
to  him,  Liebschen!  Go  to  him!" 

"  I  have  always  wanted  to,"  agreed  Gorgas.  "  Many 
times  I  started  to  —  but  I  was  afraid." 

"Afraid  of  what?"  asked  the  fearless  man. 

"  Women  do  not  do  that,  Bardek." 

He  raged  at  her.  "  How  often  have  I  taught  you 
not  to  be  afraid  of  what  women  do  or  do  not!  It  is 
woman  who  will  be  the  last  slave  on  the  free  earth ;  and 
it  is  because  she  want  to  be  slave.  I  will  not  have  you, 
my  Gorgas,  be  like  all  ze  others !  Go,  and  be!  " 

"  But  he  is  in  Boston,"  she  faltered.  She  knew  his 
itinerary  by  heart. 

"Go  to  him,  ma  fteurie.  Lives  have  been  lost 
through  pride,  through  not  saying  the  word  when  it 
is  time.  Boston  is  not  yet  Babylon,  but  for  you,  mein 
Liebschen,  there  it  is  zat  ze  tower  to  Heaven  is.  Go  to 
him." 


384  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  I  know  just  what  I  shall  say,"  she  laughed.  The 
natural  tint  of  health  was  back  in  her  face.  "  I  have 
said  it  so  often  to  myself." 

"  Of  course  you  have !  "  he  agreed  heartily.  "  And 
you  will  say  it  over  again  for  many  years.  And  the 
speeches  he  will  say  to  you!  Himmel!  What  a  dam 
will  burst  and  drown  all  the  little  valleys  when  one 
of  zese  Puritans  go  loose !  Zey  try  hard  all  the  life  to 
live  like  Saint  Acetum,  the  Vinegar  Saint  who  is  al- 
ways repairing  ze  roof  of  ze  Heaven;  and  when  zey 
topple  over  and  fall,  it  is  a  great  distance!  .  .  .  You 
will  be  eaten  alive,  my  Gorgas ;  and  it  is  a  very  pleas- 
ant experience,  vairy  pleasant  and  good ! " 

And  that  night  a  happy,  exulting  young  woman, 
charged  with  uncalculable  joy,  strode  across  the  lawn 
and  through  the  orchard,  with  never  a  fear  nor  a  de- 
spair, those  sad  parents  of  failure. 


XXVIII 

THE    MIDNIGHT   EXPRESS 

AT  Boston  Allen  Blynn  was  preparing  to  loaf 
about  the  old  town  at  his  ease  until  the  door 
should  open  for  his  second  lecture  in  that 
city.  At  eleven  o'clock  he  was  on  his  knees  at  the  bed ; 
he  could  not  quite  make  up  his  mind  which  was  the 
easiest  pair  of  shoes  for  walking. 

A  knock  at  his  door,  the  deferential  tap  of  a  well- 
feed  "  bell-hop  "  brought  his  cheery,  "  Come !  "  but  he 
did  not  look  around. 

"  Good  morning,  Professor,"  greeted  Gorgas,  fresh 
and  radiant. 

"Gracious!"  ejaculated  the  astonished  Blynn. 

"  Don't  let  me  interrupt  your  rosary,"  she  laughed. 

He  jumped  to  his  feet  —  still  unadorned  with  shoes 
—  and  grasped  both  her  extended  hands. 

"  Well !  Well !  "  he  looked  at  her  from  several  an- 
gles. "  If  this  doesn't  beat  the  Pennsylvania  Dutch ! 
How  did  you  get  here?  Another  'bee-line,'  eh?  By 
the  Great  Horn  Spoon,  I'm  glad  to  see  you !  Did  the 
whole  family  come  up?  Where  is  Kate?  "  he  made  a 
motion  as  if  to  look  into  the  hall,  but  quickly  gave  up 
because  of  the  more  overpowering  desire  to  gaze  at 
his  entrancing  visitor.  "  And  how  did  you  know  I  was 

here?" 

385 


386  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Hold  on ! "  she  stopped  him.  "  This  is  no  bloom- 
ing quizz.  I'm  alone,  mon  capitame.  I  just  —  came." 

His  mind  would  not  quite  focus  on  the  fact. 

"  I  see ! "  he  managed  to  say,  but  he  did  not  see. 

She  produced  a  cardboard.  "  Thought  I'd  boost 
your  little  lecture  by  buying  a  ticket,"  she  explained. 

"Alone!"  he  exclaimed.     "When  did  you  come?" 

"  On  the  Federal  express,  night  before  last.  I  mixed 
up  your  dates.  Thought  you  were  due  in  Boston  yes- 
terday. So  I  just  naturally  waited  over."  She 
walked  toward  the  window.  "  Great  view  you  have 
here ;  simply  great ! "  He  seized  the  nearest  pair  of 
shoes  and  struggled  into  them.  Then  he  followed  her 
to  the  window. 

"Does  Mrs.  Levering  know  you  have  come?"  he 
asked,  full  of  the  proprieties. 

She  sang  a  bar  of  a  popular  hit. 

"Do  you  know  what  you're  about? 
Does  your  mother  know  you're  out? 

"  I  didn't  say  exactly  where  I  was  going ;  I  don't 
think  I  did,"  she  turned  reflectively.  "  Why  should  I?  " 

He  tried  to  explain.  She  was  still  a  child,  seven- 
teen years  old,  he  told  her. 

"  Pm  eighteen  the  tenth  of  this  month,  and  that's 
to-morrow,"  she  corrected. 

He  knew  that.     Still  —  he  argued  further. 

"Why  will  you  persist  in  looking  down  on  me?" 
she  stamped  her  foot,  just  like  a  child.  "  I've  been 
on  my  own  since  I  was  knee  high  to  a  grasshopper. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  387 

I'm  making  my  own  living ;  I  do  a  man's  work  and,  by 
your  own  Horn  Spoon,  I  can  take  care  of  myself. 
Look  here :  yesterday  afternoon  I  sunned  myself  in  the 
Common  on  a  bench  — " 

"  Heavens !  "  he  muttered. 

"  You  should  use  just  the  opposite  word,"  she  com- 
mented complacently.  "  I  just  sat  there  and  counted 
the  men  who  ogled  me  and  the  ones  who  sat  down  and 
tried  to  talk." 

"  Goodness !  "  said  he. 

"  Opposite  again,"  she  corrected.  "  They  were  just 
imps.  Well,  they  didn't  waste  much  time  on  me,  I  tell 
you !  Superior  disdain,  that's  the  trick." 

The  professor  was  flabbergasted.  He  told  her  so, 
and  tried  to  make  clear  the  risks  she  was  running. 

She  laughed  at  him.  "  Now  don't  be  preachy,  Allen 
Blynn;  I'm  in  Boston  to  get  ideas  from  the  Jewelers' 
Exposition  —  that,  among  other  things.  I'm  a  busi- 
ness woman,  you  know.  It's  a  new  species;  get  used 
to  it." 

The  Jewelers'  Exposition  was  a  discovery  of  the  day 
before.  It  would  not  do  to  be  too  abrupt  with  Allen 
Blynn. 

By  the  time  he  had  gone  with  her  to  the  Exposition 
and  had  heard  her  wise  talk  to  the  exhibitors,  he  was 
almost  used  to  it ;  and  by  the  time  he  had  watched  her 
taking  notes  and  making  sketches,  he  was  quite  recon- 
ciled. Then  they  just  prowled. 

"Let's  go  window-cracking?"  she  suggested. 

"  Not  for  a  minute ! "  he  pretended  alarm. 


388  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Don't  you  know  '  window-cracking'  ?"  she  looked 
incredulously.  "  Where  is  your  knowledge  of  Eng- 
lish? That's  my  private  word  for  looking  in  every 
window  along  one  street  and  picking  out  the  things 
you  would  buy,  and  not  buying  a  thing.  It's  great 
fun,  and  awfully  cheap." 

So  they  went  "  window-cracking,"  like  penniless  chil- 
dren. 

They  lunched  in  style  at  the  best  hotel  and  lived 
many  weeks  together  in  one  afternoon.  She  gave  him 
time  to  get  his  notes  together  for  the  lecture,  drove 
with  him  to  the  hall  and  sat  in  the  middle  of  the 
audience,  an  enraptured  vision  to  stir  him  to  his 
best. 

At  the  close  of  the  lecture  he  hurried  to  her. 

"I  have  a  surprise  for  you,"  he  whispered;  "you 
are  not  the  only  lady  that  takes  long  journeys  to  help 
out  struggling  lecturers.  I  want  you  to  meet  '  The 
Lady  of  the  Interruption.' ' 

Her  glance  fell.     "  I  hate  her,"  she  said. 

"  S-sh ! "  he  smiled  and  turned  to  a  gracious  ma- 
tronly woman  of  about  fifty-five. 

"  Mrs.  Fellows,  here's  my  little  girl,  Gorgas,"  he 
said. 

"No  longer  a  little  girl,"  Mrs.  Fellows  extended  a 
hand. 

"  You  are  the  '  Lady  '  ?  "  Gorgas  gasped. 

"  Yes,"  the  "  Lady  "  responded  pleasantly.  "  You 
thought  I  was  young  and  attractive,  and  you  are  happy 
to  find  I  am  not." 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  389 

"  But  you  are  attractive  —  you  are  lovely !  "  Gorgas 
shot  out  impulsively. 

"Ah!  thank  you,"  the  Lady  bowed  herself  away; 
"  that  is  a  nice  speech.  And  I  know  you  think  you 
mean  it." 

She  was  gone  and  others  crowded  around. 

"  Why  didn't  you  tell  me  she  was  old?  "  Gorgas  in- 
quired. 

"  It  was  a  stupid  joke  of  mine  not  to,"  he  replied 
as  they  struggled  through  the  crowd.  "  I  found  her 
out  long  ago.  She  has  had  great  troubles  —  death  in 
a  very  frightful  form.  She  has  considerable  wealth 
but  gives  her  whole  life  to  charity.  Eccentric,  a  lit- 
tle; but  her  mind  is  mighty  keen,  I  can  tell  you.  I 
am  very  fond  of  her ;  that  is  why  I  did  not  like  to  dis- 
cuss her  with  any  one  after  I  found  out." 

At  half-past  ten  they  were  having  supper  in  a  gaudy 
grill-room,  thrilling  with  the  strumming  of  an  Hun- 
garian "  orchestra  "  and  the  stirring  air  of  city-bo- 
hemias. 

Then  Allen  Blynn  came  partly  to  his  senses. 
"  You're  going  home  tonight,"  he  said  firmly. 

"  On  the  '  Midnight,' "  she  agreed,  and  displayed  her 
Pullman  ticket. 

"Good!"  he  exclaimed,  relieved.  "I'm  half  re- 
sponsible, you  know,"  he  added.  "It's  a  great  lark. 
I'm  just  chuck  full  of  joy;  but  we  must  ship  you  off 
tonight." 

"  Let's  quarrel  a  little  bit,  first,"  she  smiled.  "  We 
have  had  some  dandy  quarrels,  haven't  we?  " 


390  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

He  couldn't  remember  any ;  then  she  would  start  one. 

"  First,"  she  began,  "  I  want  to  know  why  you  didn't 
walk  home  with  me  the  night  of  the  picnic  at  Top-o'- 
the-Hill  —  when  Leopold  sang  '  Forty  year  on.'  I 
wrote  you  a  little  note  asking  you  to  go  with  me. 
You  trotted  off  with  Kate  and  left  me  with  Leopold. 
We  had  the  deuce  of  a  time,  I  can  tell  you." 

Conscience-stricken,  he  remembered  that  half-read 
letter.  The  offer  of  the  lectures  had  swamped  his 
mind. 

The  explanation  satisfied. 

"  Leopold  wants  to  marry  me,"  she  blurted  out 
next. 

"  I  know,"  he  replied  gravely.  "  He  told  me  as 
much, —  but  at  seventeen !  Think  of  it !  " 

"I  wish  you  would  not  always  be  telling  me  that  I 
am — "  she  began  indignantly. 

"  But  you  are,  you  know,"  he  told  her  quietly. 
"  Leopold  is  as  old  as  I,  but  a  man  couldn't  pos- 
sib— " 

"Oh,"  she  laughed.  "He  couldn't?  Couldn't  he! 
He's  been  dogging  me  for  ever  so  long.  You  make  a 
big  mistake  about  years.  Everybody  does.  At  thir- 
teen, when  I  first  talked  with  you,  I  was  as  much  a 
woman  as  I  am  now  or  ever  will  be.  And  I've  been 
sitting  back  trying  to  behave  myself  like  a  doll.  At 
fifteen  I  had  my  height  and  —  everything ;  and  now  I'm 
eighteen.  I  can't  stay  in  the  refrigerator  any  longer, 
I  tell  you.  .  .  .  Leopold?  Child?  Let  me  tell  you 
something,  Allen  Blynn.  Leopold  and  I  had  a  fight 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  391 

that  night.  Not  words,  remember;  but  an  ugly  real 
fight,  with  fists  and  hands.  ...  He  knows  I'm  no 
child.  .  .  .  Now  wait !  "  she  held  up  her  hand.  "  Leo- 
pold's all  right.  He  wants  to  marry  me.  He  did  just 
what  he  ought  to  have  done.  It  was  all  right,  abso- 
lutely right.  It  was  my  fault  again.  You  went  off 
and  deserted  me — and  I  just  didn't  care  what  hap- 
pened to  me.  Then  I  had  to  fight  my  way  out.  Norn 
d'une  pipe!  Nom  du  nom  d'une  pipe!  .  .  .  And  that 
isn't  all.  I  must  shock  your  old  professorial  head  a 
little.  There  was  another.  .  .  .  But  I  woke  up  and 
got  out.  Your  letter  did  it  —  the  one  on  morals  and 
instincts,  and  that  terrible  story  of  the  leper ;  don't  you 
remember?  " 

Yes,  he  remembered.  The  little  woman  before  him 
was  opening  up  astonishing  vistas  into  her  stirring 
life.  But  she  was  a  child,  he  insisted.  The  general 
appearance  was  that  of  a  woman ;  but  that  was  a  trick 
of  hat  and  gown  and  hair,  a  disguise  easily  seen  through. 
Her  face  was  womanly,  and  her  voice;  but  in  both 
were  cries  of  very  young  life.  Her  very  wonderful 
health,  the  thing  that  gave  her  beauty  — that  was 
youth;  and  her  frankness  was  the  innocence  of  youth. 

"  Do  you  know  what  Bardek  means  by  Saint  Ace- 
turn?"  she  asked  him  suddenly.  She  had  been  study- 
ing his  rather  solemn-smiling  face,  delighting  in  its 
fine  seriousness  —  made  fine,  she  thought,  by  the  light 
of  a  smile  that  hovered  ever  in  the  eyes  and  in  and 
out  the  firm  lips. 

"What  does   Bardek  mean  by   anything!"     Allen 


392  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

chuckled  contentedly,  the  solemnity  quite  fading  from 
his  face  at  the  thought  of  the  unfathomable  Bardek. 
"  Saint  Acetum?  I  never  heard  of  the  person." 

"  Oh ! "  Gorgas  laughed  in  her  impulsive  way. 
"  Saint  Acetum  is  you !  —  The  Vinegar  Saint !  Oh, 
Allen  Blynn,  that  is  too  funny !  .  .  ."  Allen  frowned 
at  her  inquiringly.  "  That's  just  the  way  he  would 
look,  too  —  stern,  and  wise,  and  worried  — " 

«  Worried?" 

"  For  fear  the  roof  would  fall  in,  you  know." 

"  Roof?  "  he  glanced  apprehensively  at  the  ceiling. 

"  Saint  Acetum,  you  know  — "  she  tried  to  ex- 
plain. His  serious  face  was  delightfully  comic;  in  a 
flash  she  saw  how  it  would  be  immensely  jolly,  and  as- 
suring, to  have  him  gazing  at  her  forever  as  if  she 
needed  the  firmest  and  sternest  looking  after. 

"Saint  Acetum?"  he  cogitated.  "There  ain't  no 
such  animal." 

"  Oh,  yes,"  she  continued,  "  Bardek  says  — " 

"  Bardek  invented  him,  then." 

"  Of  course,  silly !  That's  the  fun  of  it.  Saint 
Acetum  is  forever  repairing  *  ze  roof  of  ze  Heaven ' ; 
and  there  he  is  up  there  all  alone,  patching  and  patch- 
ing, and  always  looking  for  trouble;  and  he  won't  ever 
come  down  and  have  a  good  time  with  the  angels  —  not 
even  once !  It  might  rain,  you  see.  And  Bardek  says, 
that's  just  like  you,  Allen  Blynn — " 

"  Isn't  Bardek  a  wonder ! "  His  eyes  glowed  with 
delight  in  the  Bohemian's  comic  fantasy.  "  And  isn't 
that  just  like  him!  .  .  .  The  Vinegar  Saint!  .  .  . 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  393 

Well!  ..."  A  strong  flash  of  determination  came 
into  his  face  suddenly.  "  And  he  is  quite  right !  .  .  . 
Someone  must  keep  watch  lest  the  Heavens  fall !  And 
they  might  fall,  you  know,"  he  added  whimsically. 
;<  You  believe  that  God  is  good,  and  all-wise,  and  all- 
powerful,  don't  you?" 

She  nodded.  "  One  must,"  she  said.  "  It  would  be 
terrible  not  to." 

"He  is  good,  and  wise;  but  perhaps  not  all-wise. 
And  sometimes  I  think  He  is  not  all-powerful.  The 
Old  One  has  won  some  of  the  battles  —  in  Eden,  for  in- 
stance. Sometimes  I  fancy  —  it  is  an  ancient  belief 
—  that  the  long  battle  between  Good  and  Evil,  begun 
aeons  ago  in  chaos,  is  still  at  its  height,  and  that  the 
outcome  might  even  be  in  doubt ;  and  then  I  fancy  that 
He  needs  us  —  some  of  us  —  on  the  firing  line ;  or,  like 
your  Vinegar  Saint,  guarding  the  outposts.  Perhaps 
we  are  sometimes  a  brake  on  progress,  but  often  we 
are  the  ones  who  save  liberty  from  liberty's  self.  You 
know,  we  Aliens  were  Tories  in  the  Revolution;  we 
were  for  the  existing  order  then,  and  against  the  revo- 
lutionists. There  must  be  a  drop  or  two  of  reaction- 
ary blood  still  in  me!  ...  Vinegar  Saint!  Good! 
But  don't  think  that  the  poor  old  chap  loves  the  end- 
less patching,  or  that  the  songs  of  the  angels  don't 
tempt  him  mightily  to  shirk  his  job.  ...  And  if  he  gets 
to  looking  too  fierce  and  vinegary,  it's  because — ' 

"  It's  because  he  is  a  dear  old  honest  capitaine"  she 
cried ;  "  and  I'd  rather  have  him  vinegary  any  day 
than—" 


394  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  Peppery?  "  he  joked,  determined  not  to  be  solemn. 

"  Yes,  or  even  sugary.  Ugh ! "  she  affected  a  de- 
lightful shudder.  "  How  I  hate  the  sweety  ones ! " 

This  was  a  pleasing  savor  to  the  Vinegar  Saint,  and 
for  a  moment  or  two  he  forgot  his  patchings,  and 
reveled  in  the  unsaintly  joy  of  flattery;  then  he  re- 
membered abruptly. 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  about  Leopold?  "  he 
asked. 

"  It  depends  upon  you,  mon  capitaine,"  she  replied 
calmly.  "  If  you  don't  want  me,  Allen  Blynn  —  any- 
body can  have  me.  There!  It's  out!  I've  made  up 
my  mind  to  say  this  to  you  for  almost  a  year.  Let 
me — " 

A  preposterous  waiter  had  to  be  dealt  with.  He  was 
recommending  some  custard  concoction  with  a  dash 
of  white  wine,  and  inquiring  about  such  irrelevant  mat- 
ters as  demi-tasses  or  full  cups.  Gorgas  had  to  be 
appealed  to.  She  made  selections  deliberately,  but  her 
fingers  were  nervously  restless. 

"  So  you  will  take  the  wine-sauce?  "  the  waiter  was 
most  interested. 

"  Yes,"  said  Blynn. 

"  Or  would  you  prefer  it  with  cream  ?  " 

"Yes,"  said  Blynn. 

"Perhaps  M'sieu*  would  rather  have  the  sliced 
oranges  ?  " 

"  Yes,  yes,"  said  Blynn  in  great  distress.  "  Any- 
thing, old  man.  You  fix  it  up.  Anything.  Just  cut 
along  like  a  good  fellow,  will  you?  " 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  395 

"Don't  look  so  frowning,  mon  capitaine,"  Gorgas 
smiled  across  the  table,  but  her  eyes  belied  that  smile. 
"  Don't  speak  yet.  Let  me  show  you  how  I  look  at 
this  thing.  If  I  stop  now,  I'll  never  begin  again. 
And  I  just  can't  stand  keeping  it  inside.  .  .  .  When 
you  came  to  me  at  the  tennis-court  five  years  ago  and 
took  me  for  a  grown  woman,  the  thing  was  done ;  right 
there.  I've  never  got  over  it.  I've  tried;  but  it  was 
no  use ;  it  got  worse.  I  sent  you  to  Holden  to  get  rid 
of  you.  .  .  .  You  scared  me.  ...  You  saw  it,  I  guess. 
My  eyes  must  have  shown,  for  you  got  out  of  the 
way.  .  .  .  That's  why  you  suddenly  fled  to  Holden; 
wasn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,"  dumbly. 

"  I  knew.  ...  It  was  beastly  the  way  you  cut 
me.  .  .  .  Don't  speak  yet.  ...  I  don't  blame  you. 
.  .  .  Sometimes  I'd  catch  you  looking  at  me  like 
a  hungry  dog,  afraid  to  come  near  for  fear  I'd 
beat  you  or  something.  I  know  what  was  the  mat- 
ter. You  were  afraid  of  encouraging  a  child.  Mercy ! 
Encourage?  That  was  just  the  way  to  make  me 
rabid!  Well,  I  resolved  to  grow  up.  I  fought  the 
family  until  I  could  dress  the  part,  and  I  fooled  every- 
body but  you.  .  .  .  And  now  I  am  grown  up.  .  .  . 
It's  no  fooling  now.  .  .  .  And  there  you  are,  as  far 
away  as  ever.  So  I  said  to  myself,  that  man  will  have 
to  be  approached  and  stormed.  He'll  never  marry 
anybody,  unless  somebody  asks  him.  No,  you 
wouldn't,  Allen  Blynn.  You're  not  a  bit  aggressive; 
you're  too  courteous,  too  afraid  of  hurting  folks' 


396  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

feelings.  Well,  I  want  to  be  hurt.  ...  So  I'm  com- 
ing right  at  you.  Here's  your  chance,  Allen  Blynn. 
.  .  .  Wait!  ...  I  figured  it  this  way.  It's  all  mere 
custom,  this  woman-sitting-back-and-waiting  business. 
I've  got  the  same  desire  for  my  man  as  any  man  has 
for  his  woman.  I  want  him.  Shall  I  let  him  slip  by? 
Not  I.  I'm  going  right  for  him.  He'll  be  startled 
at  first,  just  the  way  women  are  —  oh!  I've  talked 
with  a  lot  of  'em !  —  but  keeping  right  at  it  brings 
everything.  Half  the  women  don't  want  the  men  that 
come  at  them ;  but  the  thought  gets  into  their  brains 
and  grows  until  it  bubbles  over  and  swamps  'em.  Oh, 
I  know.  Neddie  Morris  nearly  had  me,  and  so  did 
Leopold;  if  you  hadn't  been  in  my  head  one  of  'em 
would  have  got  me;  it  was  just  a  matter  of  sliding. 
.  .  .  Now,  Allen  Blynn,  you're  my  man."  They 
were  very  close  together  at  their  diminutive  little  table. 
She  could  have  touched  his  arms,  almost  without  lean- 
ing forward.  Her  voice  grew  very  soft  and  tender  as 
she  added,  "  Aren't  I  the  brazen  one !  " 

"  Little  woman,"  he  spoke  with  the  greatest  kind- 
ness. "  Will  you  let  me  think  this  out?  " 

She  nodded.  For  a  half-hour  they  watched  the  silly 
crowd  and  nibbled  at  sweetish  frothy  desserts  and 
sipped  at  cold  coffees.  Overbibulous  folks  laughed  in 
high  keys,  and  the  Hungarian  orchestra,  taking  its 
cue  from  the  diners,  grew  noisier  and  noisier.  At  this 
moment  the  bandsmen  were  working  vigorously  on  the 
quietest  of  love  themes ;  castanets  and  cymbals  clashed 
and  tanged  and  told  all  the  world  about  "  long  years 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  397 

ago  in  old  Madrid,  where  softly  sighs  of  love  the  light 
guitar."  The  song  had  taken  the  country  only  a 
few  years  before,  and  had  now  reached  the  stage  of 
orchestral  "variations."  The  Hungarian  leader  was 
consumed  with  passion  and  beer;  he  gesticulated  and 
shouted  to  his  workers,  and  they  bent  to  their  task. 
Every  child  in  America  knew  the  absurd  words.  Even 
Allen  Blynn  knew  them ! 

Come,  my  love,  the  stars  are  shining, 

Time  is  flying, 

Love  is  sighing, 
Come,  my  love,  my  heart  is  pining 

Here  alone  I  wait  for  thee. 

Mischievously  Gorgas  accompanied  with  the  words 
of  the  refrain,  she  pianissimo,  the  orchestra  thundering 
double  forte  to  its  climax.  They  smiled  guiltily  as 
they  thought  of  the  smashing,  gesticulating  music  and 
the  personal  significance  of  the  libretto. 

"  Well,"  he  turned  to  her. 

"  Well?  "  she  rested  her  arms  on  the  little  table  so 
that  her  two  hands  almost  touched  him. 

"  This  is  the  greatest  experience  of  my  life,"  he  said 
soberly,  "  absolutely  the  greatest  and  the  finest."  His 
face  shone  with  exultation.  "It  is  the  last  thing  I 
dreamed  of.  I  thought  it  was  Leopold.  The  fact  is 
-well,  I  was  mortally  sure.  We  talked  together  just 
before  I  left.  He  didn't  tell  me  outright,  but  I  knew, 
of  course.  Naturally  I  couldn't  guess  the  details.  .  .  . 
That  is  a  revelation!  .  .  ." 

Already  she  thought  she  had  read  his  answer  and 


398  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

withdrew  her  hands  ever  so  slightly.  Except  for  a 
deeply  flushed  face  and  sparkling  eyes  she  gave  no  other 
sign ;  she  was  prepared  for  it  to  take  time ! 

"  Here  alone  I  wait  for  thee ! "  the  orchestra 
shouted. 

"  It's  hard  to  talk  here.  Come,"  he  looked  earnestly 
at  his  watch  as  if  he  had  never  seen  one  before. 
"  We'll  cab  it  for  my  hotel,  where  I  must  get  your 
birthday  gift  —  the  manuscript  book,  you  know.  .  .  . 
Then  I'll  see  you  to  your  train.  .  .  .  We  have  barely 
a  half-hour." 

St.  Acetum  had  not  tumbled  from  the  roof  of  the 
Heaven  as  Bardek  had  predicted ;  he  seemed,  rather,  to 
be  all  too  intent  on  his  eternal  patching  and  repairing. 
It  was  very  assuring ;  one  felt  safe  and  protected ;  now, 
whatever  else  happened,  the  Heavens  would  not  fall ! 
For  in  spite  of  Bardek's  jests  at  the  expense  of  the 
Saint,  Gorgas  knew  that  the  good  man  would  not  so 
easily  desert  his  high  duties  for  anything  merely  per- 
sonal. Still,  she  wished  that  he  might  at  least  just 
look  down! 

At  her  side  of  the  cab  she  sat  rigid ;  without  a  word 
she  let  him  get  out  at  the  hotel  and  return  with  the 
gift;  but  as  they  drew  near  the  railway  terminal,  she 
put  a  trembling  hand  on  his  shoulder. 

"  Won't  you  even  touch  me  ?  "  she  asked  plaintively. 

"  Please !  please !  "  he  begged ;  and  she  withdrew  to 
her  place.  Nom  d'une  pipe!  Nom  du  nom  d'une  pipe! 

"  I'm  not  a  bit  sorry  I  came,"  she  said  finally. 


THE  MIDNIGHT  EXPRESS  399 

"Nor  am  I!  Nor  am  I!"  he  replied  fervently. 
"I  feel  —  glorified!" 

They  walked  slowly,  like  two  tired  persons,  to  her 
car.  He  saw  about  her  tickets  and  bade  her  good-by 
at  the  steps. 

"  Is  there  —  somebody  else?  "  she  asked  quietly. 

"  Gracious,  no !  "  he  cried ;  but  immediately  he  said, 
"Wait!"  and  looked  worried.  "Yes,"  he  corrected, 
"  there  is  —  and  there  isn't  at  all !  "  His  lips  closed 
firmly,  but  his  eyes  seemed  to  be  telling  her  not  to  be- 
lieve a  word  of  it. 

"  This  little  book,"  he  put  the  package  into  her  hand 
hastily,  as  if  he  were  eager  to  change  the  topic,  "  is 
five  years  of  my  life.  It  will  explain  what  I  have  not 
been  able  to  say  to  you  tonight.  But  you  are  not  to 
open  it  until  your  eighteenth  birthday." 

"  That  is  tomorrow  —  and  tomorrow  is  almost 
here,"  she  told  him.  "  In  a  few  moments  I'll  be  eight- 
een." 

"  Yes,  I  know ! "  he  agreed.  "  So  you  will  be ! 
Well !  well !  On  your  ride  home,  then,  you  may  read 
it.  There  is  just  one  condition:  you  must  begin  at  the 
beginning,  and  go  straight  through  — *  Through  hedge 
and  over  gate.  Straight!  straight!  straight! 
straight ! »  "  he  quoted.  "  Promise !  " 

She  promised. 

The  porters  began  to  take  on  the  appearance  of  get- 
ting under  way ;  the  Midnight  Express  was  a  punctual 
institution. 


400  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  All  aboard !  "  someone  called  afar  off.  "  Express 
for  Philadelphia  and  Washington !  All  aboard !  " 

She  leaned  up  to  him  with  flaming  invitation  in  her 
face. 

"No  one  will  know,"  she  said.  "Quick!  They'll 
think  we're  brother  and  sister  1 " 

A  big  clock  tolled  the  first  stroke  of  twelve.  He 
took  her  face  in  his  hands  so  tempestuously  as  to 
startle  and  hurt,  but  she  laughed. 

"All  aboard!" 

"  Go  quick !  "  he  cried. 

The  conductor  was  impatient.  Boom !  boom !  the 
big  clock  finished  out  its  twelve  slow  strokes. 

"  Many  happy  returns  of  the  day,"  he  called  after 
the  moving  train.  She  said  nothing,  but  she  waved  un- 
til the  darkness  enveloped  her. 


XXIX 

"  STRAIGHT  !  STRAIGHT  !  STRAIGHT  !  STRAIGHT  !  " 

"JM  not  a  bit  sorry  I  came,"  she  said  aloud  as 
she  fumbled  around  the  zigzag  corners  of  two 

-*-  Pullmans  until  she  reached  her  own  drawing- 
room.  And  she  was  not;  she  was  most  unreasonably 
elated;  she  had,  she  knew  not  why,  all  the  humming 
sensations  of  victory.  It  was  unaccountable.  She 
sat  on  her  couch  and  tried  to  fathom  the  meaning  of  her 
snug  contentedness.  She  retold  the  full  day  together, 
the  "window-cracking,"  the  luncheon  in  state,  the  jogs 
about  strange  streets,  the  applauding  crowd  at  the 
lecture,  the  garish  Hungarian  cafe,  the  confession  and 
its  almost  painful  reception,  and  the  tumultuous  part- 
ing. She  ought  to  have  been  depressed,  but  she  was 
throbbing  with  joy.  "It  was  good,  every  minute  of 
it,"  she  said. 

Mechanically  she  undid  the  wrappings  from  Allen's 
birthday  gift,  arranged  the  pillows  and  the  light,  and 
prepared  to  read.  The  outside  of  the  book  was  the 
simple  adjustable  cover  of  a  college  notebook,  but  a 
gold-leafed  title  had  been  printed  across  the  front: 

Unclaimed  Letters 

She  turned  to  the  first  page  carefully,  remembering, 
401 


402  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Through  hedge,  over  gate 
Straight!  straight!  straight!  straight! 

There  she  found  a  subtitle:  Letters  to  Gorgas  Lev- 
ering; to  be  delivered  into  her  hands  on  the  twentieth 
anniversary  of  her  birth;  dictated  from  time  to  time 
by  the  heart  of  an  old  comrade  and  withheld  from  the 
post  by  his  conscience  (Later  note :  "  twentieth " 
amended  to  "  eighteenth  "  but  under  stern  protest  of 
said  conscience.) 

The  first  letter  was  dated  June  17,  1888.  It  was  a 
date  she  knew  by  heart.  Every  year  she  had  cele- 
brated secretly  the  anniversary  of  the  meeting  at  the 
tennis-court.  She  read: 

"  Dear  Gorgas  Levering :  You  have  given  me  a 
psychological  shock :  you  have  unhinged  my  reason,  let 
loose  my  emotions,  and  upset  my  moral  apple  cart ! 
You  did  all  that,  and  you  know  nothing  about  it. 
When  you  grow  up  —  say,  at  twenty  or  twenty-one  — 
I  shall  present  you  with  this  document  of  evidence,  and 
if  you  have  any  sense  of  decency  at  that  age  you  will 
be  shocked  too.  No  little  girl  of  thirteen  with  a  face 
like  a  madonna  should  be  allowed  to  tuck  her  legs  under 
her  pinafore  and  impose  upon  a  grown  up  man  what 
shaves  every  day.  (The  seeming  irrelevancy  of  these 
remarks  is  not  due  to  lunacy  —  although  it  is  yet  dis- 
puted if  the  moon  does  not  have  something  to  do  with 
it  —  but  to  a  fine  scientific  ardor.  All  the  facts  must 
be  recorded  and  in  this  case  concealed  legs  is  facts.) 

"  All  my  life  I  have  stopped  in  the  middle  of  experi- 


«  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  "      403 

ence  and  recorded  my  feelings.  I  saj,  *  Allen  Blynn, 
you  feel  this  way  or  that  way.'  This  helps  me  to  re- 
member later;  for  all  our  lives  we  are  shifting  and 
changing  and  forgetting  our  former  selves.  Hence  I 
hereby  solemnly  affirm  that  if  I  had  the  courage  to 
smash  all  the  conventions  of  my  civilization  and  put  a 
good-sized  gash  into  the  moral  code  of  my  con- 
temporaries, I,  Allen  Blynn,  male,  white,  and  a  voter, 
would  have  picked  you  up  in  my  arms  today  at  the  ten- 
nis-courts, hugged  the  daylight  out  of  you,  tossed  you 
across  my  shoulders,  made  straight  for  the  nearest 
clergyman  and  married  you  —  with  one  hand  across 
your  mouth  to  prevent  your  squealing  and  the  other 
firmly  grasping  }Tour  struggling  legs. 

"That  would  be  kidnapping  —  punishable  by  life 
imprisonment.  I  know  it.  And  also  grand  larceny. 
Of  course  it  is.  And  something  like  piracy.  Right! 
Yet,  I  did  none  of  these  things;  sheer  cowardice  held 
my  hands ;  but  if  to  have  murder  in  the  heart  is  to  be 
murderer,  as  I  believe,  then  I  stand  here  convicted  of 
the  desire  to  own  you,  bag  and  baggage,  legs,  and  all. 

"  And  you  are  thirteen  years  old,  and  I  am  twenty- 
three  ! 

"It  is  shameful,  isn't  it?     But  I  am  brazenly  un- 
ashamed.    That  is  the  Lord's  own  psychological  truth ! 
"  Your  kidnapper  at  heart, 

"Allen  Blynn." 

"And  I  wouldn't  have  squealed  a  bit,"  Gorgas 
crooned.  "  I'd  have  trotted  right  along  —  in  the  lead, 


404  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

too.  I  bet  he  doesn't  know  the  shortest  cut  to  the  par- 
sonage." 

"  June  21,"  the  next  letter  began. 

"  That  was  the  Wednesday  afternoon  he  first  came 
to  the  house,"  she  commented. 

"Dear  Gorgas  Levering:  Psychological  facts  are 
accumulating. 

"  Fact  No.  1 : 1  am  still  a  criminal-at-large  and  more 
dangerous  than  ever. 

"  Fact  No.  2 : 1  slipped  back  five  years  this  afternoon 
and  became  eighteen.  The  proof  is  we  both  had  a  gal- 
lumptious  time  mimicking  the  neighborhood  and  acted 
like  a  pair  of  school  children.  Further  proof  is  that 
you  continually  did  make  eyes  at  me,  and,  in  spite  of 
all  the  roaring  protestations  of  something  that's  left 
of  my  conscience,  my  own  did  slip  several  times.  They 
really  did  slip :  they  slid  nearer  and  nearer ;  from  your 
chin  they  drew  up  to  the  tip  of  your  nose;  clambered 
up,  up,  slowly,  overran  the  mark,  and  perched 
perilously  on  the  right  eyebrow ;  leaned  over  for  a  dizzy 
second  and  —  slipped  into  untold  brown  fathoms. 
Once  I  was  nearly  drowned.  It  was  the  most  terrify- 
ing sensation  of  my  young  manhood. 

"  Fact  No.  3 :  I  was  mortally  ashamed  —  put  that 
down  to  my  credit  (you  were  not,  you  rogue!) 
and  resolved  never  to  do  it  again.  The  Lord  have 
mercy  upon  us  and  incline  our  hearts  to  keep  this  law. 

"  Fact  No.  4 :  That  gypsy  scamp  scares  me  into 
trembles.  When  you  told  me  of  him  I  had  murder  in 
my  heart,  then  and  there;  all  the  fierce  primitive  de- 


"STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!"      405 

sire  to  meet  that  beast  and  beat  him  into  pulp.  My 
voice  shook  so  when  I  asked  you  about  him  that  I  was 
certain  you  noticed  it.  My  nesting  instincts  are  com- 
ing with  a  rush  —  and  they  are  most  terrifying. 

"  Fact  No.  5 :  In  daylight  I  admit  none  of  these 
things.  I  am  very  moral  and  civilized  in  daylight. 
Only  at  night  when  I  sit  before  this  white  paper  does 
my  inward,  honest  self  come  to  the  fore  and  disport 
his  naked  savagery. 

"  Fact  No.  6 :  The  two  '  me's  '  are  fighting  each 
other;  daylight  against  darkness.  Daylight  is  going 
to  win,  or  it's  all  over  with  Allen  Blynn  (see  the  state 
your  rhyming's  put  me  in!) 

"  Still  criminal, 

"  Allen  Blynn." 

The  next  letters  were  full  of  vindictive  hatred  of 
Bardek.  Allen  had  gone  to  the  old  mill  and  found  it 
deserted.  He  told  how  all  his  talk  on  Elizabethan  love 
with  Kate  as  they  drove  along  the  Wissahickon  was 
only  the  outward  voice  speaking;  within  were  throb- 
bing anxious  cries  for  a  little  child  off  in  the  woods  with 
—  what  sort  of  a  man?  The  Lord  only  knew.  Eliza- 
bethan love  —  contagion,  infection,  plague  and  what 
not —  he  had  them  all,  a  virulent  case.  With  wide 
eyes  Gorgas  read  of  his  tramp  back  into  the  dark  of 
Cresheim  Valley  and  how  he  had  seen  her  forlorn  little 
figure  pacing  thoughtfully  beside  "Gyp."  Only 
vigorous  conscience  withheld  his  hands  from  touching 
her  as  she  passed  by. 


406  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

Fourteen,  fifteen,  sixteen,  seventeen,  eighteen,  nine- 
teen, twenty  —  terrible !  a  life-time  of  exile.  Perhaps 
one  might  make  it  nineteen  —  No !  said  Conscience, 
roaring  outrageously.  Well,  twenty,  then. 

The  "  German  days,"  "  French  days,"  and  "  Italian 
days  "  followed  in  review,  while  Gorgas  passed  from 
thirteen  to  fourteen.  His  joy  at  the  discovery  of  the 
simple  sincerity  of  Bardek  flowed  through  the  pages, 
with  just  a  hint  of  watchfulness.  "  He  is  a  man,  a 
free-thinker,  a  free-lover,  too,  I  suspect,"  he  warned 
her.  "  Look  out  for  him,  child ;  but  you  need  not  do 
that.  I  am  on  eternal  guard,  now.  He  has  no  con- 
science, that  is  certain ;  but  in  some  matters  neither 
have  I.  If  he  makes  a  step  toward  you  *  I  would  eat  his 
heart  out  in  the  market  place ! '  But  I  have  faith  in 
Bardek,  an  unreasoned  thing,  but  clear  enough.  Time 
will  tell. 

"And  I'm  watching  you,  too,  Golden  Child.  Your 
brown  eyes  do  not  behave  themselves.  They  explore, 
explore,  explore,  until  I  am  ready  to  reach  out  my  hand 
and  close  them  against  myself.  And  you  continually 
do  pluck  at  my  sleeve  and  touch  my  wrist  nervously 
with  the  tips  of  your  hot  fingers  and  send  my  blood 
slamming  and  jamming  and  ramming  and  cramming 
like  the  waters  go  down  at  Lodore.  You  have  no  con- 
science, either ;  that's  plain.  Well,  here's  where  I  begin 
my  long  vigil.  Fifteen,  sixteen,  seventeen,  eighteen, 
nineteen,  twenty  —  it  is  life  imprisonment.  I'll  be  an 
old  man !  Shall  we  say  nineteen  then  ?  Golly  !  What 
a  racket  Conscience  sets  up ! " 


"  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  "      407 

At  another  time  he  wrote  briefly.  "  You  stood  in 
the  narrow  path  today,  when  we  found  that  Bardek 
had  gone,  and  reached  out  your  arms  to  me.  By  the 
Great  Horn  Spoon  1  By  the  Dipper  and  the  Little 
Bear !  And  the  Pole  Star !  And  the  Pleiades !  Don't 
ever  do  that  again!  Zounds!  Flesh  and  blood,  that's 
all  I'm  made  of!  Fra  Lippo  Lippi  said  that.  Fortu- 
nately for  you  and  me  I'm  flesh  and  blood  plus  a  Con- 
science." 

"  And  I  never  guessed  it ! "  Gorgas  communed  with 
herself.  "  If  I  had  — "  The  first  touch  of  remorse 
seized  her  for  the  lost  chances  of  life,  and  a  little  anger 
at  the  laws  of  polite  society,  and  a  pang  of  jealousy 
for  that  "  other  "  whom  he  had  so  dubiously  confessed. 

"  Why  does  he  torture  me  with  this  book  of  let- 
ters?" she  marvelled.  A  few  leaves  slipped  through 
her  fingers ;  she  turned  impatiently  toward  the  conclud- 
ing pages,  but  stopped.  "I'll  play  fair,"  she  said 
"  Straight !  straight !  straight !  straight !  " 

Morris  came  into  the  letters.  Allen  had  noticed 
greedily  their  intimacy  and  lamented  the  early  book- 
ishness  that  had  prevented  his  ever  being  more  than  a 
spectator  at  athletics.  Some  of  the  fierce  passions  of 
envy  seized  him.  He  was  gloriously  frank.  "  I'm  a 
half-man,"  he  exclaimed.  "  They  let  me  sit  and  spell 
out  books  and  praised  me  until  my  vanity  led  me 
further  and  further  away  from  real  life.  Why  couldn't 
they  have  driven  me  off  to  baseball  and  football  and 
all  that !  The  world  praises  the  pedant,  but  the  young 
woman  goes  straight  to  a  man.  I  have  had  the  educa- 


408  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

tion  of  a  woman  —  and  even  women  are  repudiating  it, 
nowadays." 

He  was  very  unfair  to  himself  in  these  despondent 
pages.  Gorgas  quarreled  with  every  line.  She  scolded 
him ;  told  him  what  his  real  qualities  were  and  ad- 
vised him  to  have  more  sense  or  she  would  skip.  It 
was  the  "  Sorrows  of  Allen  Blynn,"  the  aching  of  strong 
youth  before  he  has  found  his  place,  when  he  cries  out 
upon  his  own  unfitness  for  any  place  at  all.  "  These 
are  just  my  growing  pains,  child,"  he  was  wise  enough 
to  write.  "  Don't  bother  your  little  head  about  them ; 
it'll  come  out  all  right  eventually."  But  it  made  her 
uncomfortable  and  weepy. 

At  the  top  of  the  next  page  a  street  address  gave 
her  a  sudden  pleasurable  thrill : 

18/a  Fiirstenstrasse, 
Miinchen,  Deutschland. 

"  Oh ! "  Gorgas  gasped  in  delight.  "  He  really  did 
write  from  Germany,  after  all." 

" Mein  Kindchen"  it  began.  " Frau  Schloss  talked 
of  your  letter  even  before  she  would  arrange  the  price 
of  breakfasts  and  bed.  There  has  been  a  great  to  do 
over  your  letter.  It  came  several  days  before  I  ar- 
rived. And  it  was  a  bulky  document  —  thick,  extrava- 
gant American  letter-paper  is  to  the  German  mind  like 
feeding  lamb  chops  to  stray  dogs.  And  it  lacked 
stamps  mightily. 

"  The  question  that  confronted  the  Frau  Schloss, 
the  Herr  Schloss,  the  Gemiise  Frau,  who  keeps  a  green- 


"STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!"      409 

grocery  below  stairs,  and  the  Herr  Postman  —  the 
question  that  has  stirred  them  for  the  past  fortnight 
is  whether  it  is  a  safe  investment  to  pay  the  overdue 
postage,  trusting  that  the  Herr  Professor  would  later 
make  restitution  plus  trinkgeld;  or  deny  all  knowledge 
of  the  Herr  Professor  and  throw  the  responsibility 
upon  the  efficient  German  postal  service.  Well ! 
They  decided  that  the  Herr  Professor  would  be  an  easy 
American  mark,  as  he  had  been  on  former  visits;  so 
they  paid  out  real  money,  received  the  letter,  and  took 
the  big  risk  that  I  might  not  have  recovered  from  the 
American  madness  of  paying  large  sums  with  a  smile. 

"  As  I  arrived  in  the  Fiirstenstrasse,  Frau  Schloss 
saw  me  from  the  window  above  the  green-grocery  and 
hastened  down  the  dark  stair  and  through  the  darker 
alley  of  a  vestibule  (where  the  Gemiise  Frau  keeps  her 
push-cart)  to  meet  me  breathless  in  front  of  the 
Vegetable  Lady's  display. 

"  *  I  suppose  I  may  have  my  old  rooms  ? '  I  asked,  af- 
ter the  first  formal  greetings. 

"  *  Oh,  the  letter,  my  honored  Herr  Professor ! '  she 
began  tragically. 

"  Ah ! '  I  caught  her  up.  '  I  cannot  have  the  rooms 
then?  I'm  sorry.' 

"  *  Yes !  yes ! '  she  assured  me,  *  Yes,  honored  Herr 
Professor.  The  rooms  are  ready.  And  the  letter  is 
ready,  too!  It  came  a  week  ago.  We  have  kept  it 
for  you  — -' 

"'We  have  kept  it,'  said  Herr  Schloss,  emerging 

from  the  dark  hall. 


410  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

"  * —  and  have  paid,'  beamed  Frau  Schloss  anxiously. 

"  *  We  have  indeed  paid,'  helped  Herr  Schloss. 

"  *  I  have  seen  them  pay,'  corroborated  the  Gemiise 
Frau,  looming  from  the  dark  doorway. 

"  Oh,  they  held  me  with  a  glittering  eye,  Frau 
Schloss,  Herr  Schloss,  and  the  Gemiise  Frau,  as  I 
listened  to  their  tale,  awaited  the  bringing  forth  of  the 
letter  and  stood  silent  and  noncommittal  throughout 
the  profuse  explanation  of  each  glaring  governmental 
mark  that  announced  money  due. 

"  '  Bless  my  soul ! '  I  cried  in  English ;  '  it's  from 
Gorgas.'  And  I  ripped  it  open  right  before  them, 
ejaculated  my  joy  in  their  very  faces — we  were  still 
on  the  sidewalk  in  front  of  the  house  —  thanked  them 
in  flowery  German  and  passed  rapidly  by  to  my  old 
rooms  without  so  much  as  a  hint  of  payment. 

"  They  followed  me. 

"  '  Is  it  then  an  important  letter  ?  '  anxiously  in- 
quired the  Frau  Schloss. 

"  *  Important  ?  '  I  echoed.  *  It  is  worth  a  million 
Dutch  thalers.' 

"  Then  I  saw  their  faces.  *  Oh '  I  sensed  their 
trouble.  '  My  best  thanks  for  your  thoughtfulness ; 
pray,  accept  this  little  token,'  and  I  passed  the  lady 
the  sum  of  twelve  cents  —  a  silver  fifty-pfennig  piece 
—  a  Bavarian  ransom.  As  the  postage  amounted  to 
only  twenty-five  pfennig,  this  gave  the  family  a  clear 
rake-off  of  six  American  cents.  Ah !  there  was  j  oy  in 
the  Schloss  family  that  night,  and  for  days  the  Gemiise 
Frau  shone  by  reflected  glory.  Thrift!  What  would 


"  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  "     411 

we  Americans  in  Germany  do  without  thrift  in  the  Ger- 
mans! 

"  I  am  purposely  keeping  away  from  your  letter. 
All  this  introductory  setting  is  to  tantalize  myself,  to 
force  myself  to  be  calm  and  see  things  straight.  At 
the  slightest  excuse  I  could  gush  forth  on  these  pages 
a  quantity  and  quality  of  sentiment  that  would  make 
your  six-page  outcry  seem  quite  sensible  and  respect- 
able. (And  it  is  neither,  you  know,  mem  Kmdschen.) 
You  tell  me  things  here  that  I  know  only  too  well. 
Maybe  that's  why  I  am  in  Germany.  You  hint  that 
I  could  marry  you  by  crooking  my  little  finger.  Down 
here  in  Bavaria  they  often  do  that  sort  of  thing  at 
exactly  your  age  —  fifteen  and  one-half.  But  if  I 
should  do  it,  or  encourage  you  to  think  that  I  might 
even  want  to  do  it  —  well!  I  have  read  enough  Italian 
literature  to  know  that  there  is  a  particularly  private 
pit  in  Hell  reserved  for  those  chaps.  So  I  am  going  to 
perform  a  bit  of  moral  cruelty  which  makes  me  ill  to 
think  of  —  and  is  bound  to  make  me  iller  as  the  days 
and  nights  go  by  —  I  am  going  to  ignore  your  truthful 
little  confession;  act  brutally  as  if  you  had  never 
penned  it;  pretend  that  I  never  could  guess  how  you 
would  count  the  days  it  takes  for  a  letter  to  cross  the 
ocean,  arrive  at  Hamburg,  drift  down  to  Munich ;  how 
you  would  count  again  the  days  it  takes  a  reply  to  come 
up  to  Hamburg  and  sail  to  New  York;  how  for  days 
and  days  and  months  and  months  you  would  watch  for 
the  postman,  trying  all  the  while  to  look  unconcerned, 
and  find  each  day  —  silence.  You  are  not  the  kind 


412  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

of  child  to  grow  busy  with  your  playthings  and  forget. 
I  know  how  you  will  suffer  —  worse  now,  perhaps,  than 
if  you  were  older.  And  I  make  you  suffer  because 
there  is  no  other  way. 

"  There  is  no  other  way ;  I  may  make  no  explana- 
tion. If  I  told  you  the  truth  you  would  probably  take 
the  next  steamer  for  Europe ;  and  if  I  acted  the  way  I 
feel,  I'd  probably  meet  you  half  way  over.  And  I  can't 
write  you  a  lame  acknowledgment  that  I  have  received 
your  letter,  have  it  on  file  and  will  attend  to  your  order 
in  due  course.  The  coldest  thing  I  wrote  would  burn 
with  the  lie  that  it  carried  and  you  would  guess  and  be 
tempted  by  me.  No.  I  am  like  a  man  in  love  with  his 
friend's  wife.  There  is  nothing  to  do.  I  must  keep 
the  faith  —  which  means,  in  this  case,  silence. 

"  It  is  so  horrible,  the  thing  I  must  do,  that  I  almost 
forget  how  you  have  paid  in  advance  for  my  necessary 
brutality.  This  fragile,  badly-spelled,  pink-rose-leaf 
confession  of  yours,  so  delicately  real,  like  a  half- 
opened  cherry-bud,  warm,  fragrant,  potent  with  all 
that  is  to  be !  I  could  send  it  back  to  you,  mein  Kind- 
schen,  and  say,  *  All  that  you  own  here,  I  confess  again 
to  you.  Speak;  and  whatever  you  say,  that  will  be 
but  the  echo  of  myself.5 

"  And  I  shall  say  nothing.  But  my  heart  is  full  of 
pity,  mein  Kindschen." 

They  were  crossing  the  river  above  New  York  city 
before  she  had  been  able  to  finish  three-quarters  of  the 
book;  the  cars  were  shifted  carefully  and  tenderly  to  a 


"  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  "      413 

flat-bottomed  ferry;  in  a  few  moments  they  were  being 
towed  down  the  river  to  Jersey  City.  She  could  look 
out  of  her  window  and  see  the  lights  of  the  river  and 
hear  the  water  lapping  the  sides  of  the  boat.  Much 
meditation  had  gone  with  each  page;  and  she  was  re- 
luctant to  come  to  the  impending  end. 

Leopold  appeared  in  the  letters.  "  I  am  playing  a 
losing  game,  I  know,"  he  wrote.  "  While  I  wait  and 
look  fatherly  (and  get  called  mon  pere —  ugh!)  some- 
one else,  less  scrupulous  —  and  a  blamed  sight  more 
natural !  —  will  reach  out  and  take  you.  .  .  .  Nom 
(Tune  pipe!  .  .  .  My  word  is  given,  however,  and  I  will 
not  break  it.  Hier  stehe  ich,  Gott  mir  helfen,  ich  kann 
nicht  anders;  so  said  Luther,  or  something  like  that, 
on  a  matter  that  seems  to  me  less  important !  " 

Almost  immediately  after  this  he  was  rowing  most 
gloriously  with  Conscience  and  bringing  the  years  down 
to  eighteen.  "  Something  ought  to  be  knocked  off  for 
good  behavior,"  he  argued ;  "  every  decent  prison  allows 
that.  But  there's  the  final  stand.  One  step  this  side 
—  one  minute  even,  and  I'd  never  forgive  myself. 
Seventeen,  eighteen  !  Two  years  of  acting-grandfather, 
playing  the  wise  old  professor,  so  interested  in  educa- 
tion !  Rats ! " 

Now  he  was  leaving  abruptly  for  Holden,  decamping 
in  the  night,  fleeing  before  the  attack  of  the  tempter. 
The  devil  had  got  into  him ;  the  Old  One  needed  vigorous 
exorcising. 

The  Old  One  came  in  for  a  long  essay.  The  devil 
was  God's  ally,  he  found  out ;  Lucifer  tried  men  out, 


414?  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

tested  them,  showed  up  the  flaws,  taught  them  exactly 
what  to  amend,  reject  or  add.  Spiritual  perfection 
was  not  possible  without  a  healthy,  vigorous  tussle  with 
the  Old  One. 

"  I  know  when  he  is  coming,"  he  claimed ;  "  first,  I 
hear  the  cries  of  the  old  mystery-play  devils,  '  Out 
haro !  Out  haro !  Out !  out !  out ! '  just  like  a  pack 
of  yelping  dogs  on  a  hot  scent.  Then  I  find  my  heart, 
blood,  lungs,  vertebrae,  stomach,  legs,  and  sympathetic 
nervous  system  all  going  back  on  me.  The  flesh  and 
the  devils  are  old  cronies,  you  know.  '  Out !  out !  Out 
haro !  Out !  out ! '  he  howls,  nearer  and  nearer ;  my 
whole  physical  *  me '  tugs  and  yowls  and  bites  at  the 
leash. 

"  Then  the  real  *  me '  takes  a  fresh  grip  and  holds 
fast.  I  slip  and  slide  a  little,  but  dig  my  feet  in  the 
stones,  and  pray  — " 

"  I  know.     I  know,"  nodded  Gorgas. 

" —  Then  I  throw  the  thong  over  my  shoulders," 
Allen  went  on,  "  turn  my  back  on  the  fiend  and  drag 
that  other  part  of  c  me,'  heart,  stomach,  and  all,  straight 
up  on  firm  ground.  Every  step's  a  better  one." 

"  My  legs  get  away  from  me,"  Gorgas  commented 
ruefully.  "  They  just  took  me  off  to  Boston.  And 
I'm  not  a  bit  sorry  —  and  that's  funny,  too." 

Seventeen  was  the  hardest  year.  The  grown-up 
gowns  were  not  lost  on  him.  "  Attire  of  the  devil's 
making,"  he  wrote.  "  A  snare  of  the  Old  One, —  Retro, 
Sathanas!  Get  thee  behind  me.  Not  a  minute  before 
the  hour  set,  or  all  my  life  I  shall  feel  depraved." 


"STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!"     415 

The  Old  One  argued  with  him.  He  gave  a  part  of 
the  debate: 

"  Old  One :  Why  grow  solemn-faced  over  so  simple 
a  matter!  She's  a  woman  and  you're  a  man. 

"  Allen  B. :  She's  a  child  and  I  am  a  man,  thank  the 
Lord,  full-grown  and  in  control  of  himself. 

"Old  One:  (sneering)  Are  you  a  man?  Oh,  no, 
you're  not.  You're  neither  male  nor  female.  You're 
a  pedagogue. 

"  A.  B. :  (wincing)  Touches  bien!  A  hit !  What- 
ever I  am,  I  am  going  to  be  decent. 

"  Old  One:  (artfully)  All  the  unnatural  things  and 
all  the  disagreeable  ones  are  decent.  In  Constantinople 
it  isn't  decent  for  a  woman  to  show  her  lips.  Man  in- 
vented that  word,  *  decent.'  With  God  there  is  no 
decent  or  indecent.  He  made  'em  all,  the  good  and  the 
bad.  Don't  you  know  your  Browning?  He  made  you, 
Allen  Blynn,  what  you  are. 

"  A.  B. :  And  he  made  you,  you  canker !  And  he 
made  me  strong  to  fight  you.  Retro!  Imp  of  Dark- 
ness !  'Raus ! 

"Old  One:     Are  you  so  strong? 

"  A.  B. :     No !  ...  Get  out ! 

"Old  One:  Neither  is  Leopold  —  Leopold,  your 
bosom-friend  — 

"A.  B.:  (smiting  him)  Back  to  hell,  you  miserable 
liar !  Back !  Back ! 

"Old  One:  (retreating)  Ho!  ho!  ho!  ho!  Out 
haro!  out  haro!  ho!  ho!  Neither  is  Leopold!  .  .  . 
Leopold!  .  .  .  Leopold!" 


416  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

On  other  pages  he  was  full  of  hope.  The  dream  had 
come  true.  He  was  planning  out  his  life  with  her. 
"  We  must  make  this  go  right,"  he  said.  "  The  world 
is  writing  its  books  against  us.  Every  little  novelist 
and  every  little  playwright  is  hinting  dark  things 
against  marriage.  They  sneer  at  all  the  habits  of  the 
race  and  cry,  '  Liberty  for  the  emotions.'  *  Love  thy 
neighbor  as  thyself,'  they  tempt,  '  and  also  thy  neigh- 
bor's wife.  Marriage  is  servitude  and  a  restriction ; 
let's  wallow  and  be  natural.'  Liars  and  servants  of  the 
Old  One,  every  mother's  son.  But  we  must  watch  care- 
fully. Marriage  is  like  any  other  attempt  at  living; 
it  must  be  tended  and  watched  and  fed,  not  squandered 
or  tossed  about.  We'll  spend  our  store  of  affection 
like  other  gifts,  not  lavishly  all  at  once  in  one  mad 
spree,  but  with  rare  economy;  and  we'll  keep  adding 
new  funds  to  the  old  by  sharing  associations  together. 
We  must  not  begin  to  have  separate  interests  or  even 
different  friends.  Marriage  is  a  wonderful  art;  the 
ideal  is  ever  beyond  achievement,  but  it  is  worth  striv- 
ing for.  .  .  .  Did  you  say,  '  Honorificabilitudinitati- 
bus'? 

"  I  have  two  complete  and  separate  lives,"  he  wrote 
further ;  "  the  one  I  live  in  the  day-time,  serious,  ma- 
ture, full  of  windy  arguments  of  state,  books,  religion, 
literature,  education ;  the  one  I  live  at  night  when  the 
hurlyburly  of  the  day  is  done  and  I  travel  these  pages 
with  you.  My  very  style  is  different  in  these  two  per- 
sonalities. In  the  broad  light  of  day  I  am  somewhat 
stilted  and  over-oldish  for  one  so  young;  here  with  you 


"  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  STRAIGHT !  "      «7 

sitting  sleepy-eyed  in  the  chair  before  me,  I  am  lithe  and 
bold  and  gay  and  boyish.  There  are  no  sweethearts 
in  the  day-time  for  Allen  Blynn.  And  that's  a  good 
thing,  too;  or  he  couldn't  do  a  proper  day's  work. 
Sometimes  you  do  bob  in,  but  I  rise  politely,  put  on  my 
spectacles,  usher  you  firmly  to  the  door  and  bid  you  a 
pleasant  but  peremptory  *  good  morning.'  Sometimes 
you  slip  in  by  the  window,  and  then  I  am  done  for." 

The  "  Lady  of  the  Interruption  "  came  in  for  a  com- 
ment or  two.  "  You  have  a  wrong  notion  of  that  Lady ; 
and  I  have  encouraged  it ;  you  ask  such  persistent  ques- 
tions about  her  eyes  and  her  hair  and  her  dresses  — 
about  all  of  which  I  know  nothing.  She  is  at  least  fifty, 
but  I  have  carefully  concealed  that  from  you.  Your 
wide-open  eyes  see  a  life-partner  there  and  I  affect  to 
wonder  if  it  might  not  be.  That's  playing  the  game 
square  —  a  little  too  square,  perhaps.  At  any  rate  it 
is  right  penance  for  all  my  sins  of  desire ;  and  it  pleases 
Conscience  mightily  and  makes  the  Old  One  howl." 

Those  dictated  letters  to  the  family !  Great  Scott ! 
How  self-conscious  and  bookish  they  were.  Daylight 
wrote  every  line  of  them,  affirmed  Allen  Blynn. 

Dawn  was  slowly  touching  the  edge  of  a  New  Jersey 
pine  wood;  but  Gorgas  was  not  at  all  aware  of  that. 
Never  had  sleep  seemed  so  foreign  to  her  needs. 

Breathlessly  she  read  on  until  within  a  page  or  two 

of  the  end. 

"What  does  he  mean?  What  does  he  mean?  "  she 
fingered  the  scant  leaves  that  remained.  "  He  said 


418  THE  VINEGAR  SAINT 

there  was  another  — *  There  is  —  and  there  isn't  at  all,* 
he  said." 

The  end  came  abruptly.  It  was  dated  only  a  few 
weeks  ago.  Before  he  had  left  for  his  lecture  trip  he 
had  had  a  casual  talk  with  Leopold,  he  wrote.  What 
Leopold  really  said  is  not  recorded  —  Leopold  was  too 
honest  a  man  to  have  lied  —  but,  nevertheless,  Allen 
Blynn  came  away  with  the  certain  impression  that  the 
long  vigil  had  come  to  naught.  Poets,  lovers  and  mad- 
men have  such  seething  brains ! 

"  I  have  climbed  to  my  '  Top-o'-the-hill,5 "  wrote 
Allen ;  "  beyond  is  Canaan,  but  it  is  not  for  me." 

"  How  could  he?  How  could  he?  "  Gorgas  whis- 
pered. "  This  is  terrible,  Allen  Blynn."  Solicitude 
for  her  man  quite  outweighed  her  own  loss. 

She  read  on :  "  Within  sight  of  the  promised  land 
I  must  die  and  be  buried  in  the  Valley  of  Moab,"  he 
wrote  on  the  final  page.  "  What  sin  I  have  committed 
I  know  not.  .  .  .  And  now  you  will  never  find  me  out, 
my  child.  Your  birthday  gift  —  this  book  of  absurd 
confessions  —  must  be  buried  with  me. 

"  *  And  Jehovah  showed  him  all  the  land  of  Gilead. 
unto  Dan  and  all  Naphtali,  and  the  land  of  Ephraim 
and  Manasseh,  and  all  the  land  of  Judah,  unto  the 
utmost  sea,  and  the  South,  and  the  Plain  of  the  Valley 
of  Jericho,  the  city  of  palm  trees,  unto  Zoar.  .  .  .  And 
He  buried  him  in  the  valley  in  the  land  of  Moab;  but 
no  man  knoweth  of  his  sepulchre  unto  this  day.' ' 

"  Finis  "  was  written  in  deliberate  ink ;  but  a  white 
space  below  had  left  room  for  a  scrawl  in  pencil :  "  You 


"STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!  STRAIGHT!"      419 

are  out  there  in  the  cab,  little  woman,  and  Canaan  is 
around  and  about  me;  yet  I  must  not  speak.  When 
you  read  these  pages  you  will  know  and  understand. 
The  Old  One  is  fighting  hard  with  me  to  break  the 
faith;  but  I  cannot,  now.  Our  life  together  must  not 
begin  this  way.  You  must  go  home,  and  I  must  not 
have  it  on  my  soul  that  I  even  so  much  as  touched  you. 
There  is  a  way  that  seemeth  right  unto  a  man,  but  the 
end  thereof  are  the  ways  of  death.  In  my  stupid,  iron- 
set,  prejudiced,  superstitious  brain  you  are  a  child  until 
tomorrow.  Tomorrow  you  will  be  something  other,  my 
right  woman.  That  other  I  will  claim,  but  —  tomor- 
row. Tomorrow! 

"  Your  ecstatic,  maybe-foolish,  and  altogether  glori- 
fied, 

"  VINEGAR  SAINT." 

"  Oh,  Allen  Blynn !  Allen  Blynn  !  "  the  tearful  little 
woman  laughed  in  her  joy.  "You  are  too  funny! 
You  are  too,  too  funny ! " 


THE    END 


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